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Hi! This is an archive for the fanfic's i've ever read

(If you wanna talk to me, pls refer to @ladyelena112)

Tbh i'm creating this bc i'm terrified of accounts deactivating

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#Mini's Library - the general tag for every fic

#Mini's Fic Recs - my personal recommendations

#Harry Potter fandom

Character specific masterlist

#Genshin Impact

Character specific masterlist

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#Detroit: Become Human

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[rockylandphm]

pushing it down and praying

pairing: colt seavers x reader but also not rly but also ryland grace x reader honestly it's up for interpretation (coltland twins agenda)

synopsis. when ryland grace is taken by the stars, you and his twin brother are left behind with nothing but shared grief or in which, you keep looking for your lost love in colt’s eyes, and colt keeps pretending it doesn't break his heart

word count. 2.1k words

note. uhhh this is my first fic for the goose universe so please take it easy on me. this was loosely based off of that scene of harry and hermione dancing in deathly hallows. and also inspired by this fic

The thirteenth of February was the last time when everything was all right. The day when, back in the Earth you knew, the Earth that held Ryland Grace, soft feet padded to where you’d fallen asleep on the couch.

Another late night waiting for your boyfriend to come home, and another night waking up as he carried you gently towards your bedroom. 

“‘M sorry for coming home late again, honey.” His voice was quiet. Almost afraid. Like he didn’t want to startle you awake. You try to mumble a response, it’s inaudible, but it makes Ryland smile. “After tomorrow, I’ll be yours again. I promise.”

Ryland had said it with so much sureness you thought was true.

“I love you.” The last words you’d ever hear from him, in a voice so calm and so gentle. The tone forever haunts you in your dreams, and how you were never able to say it back.

Later, and perhaps for the rest of your life, you will think that maybe if you’d said something, if you’d been a little more awake, you could’ve changed what happened next. Instead, you fall asleep without knowing it’ll be the last time you would ever see Ryland Grace.

–

The next few months of missing Ryland have been slow, yet so fast. Time proves itself to you the way it did when he left, painful and with no explanation. You remember checking the clock when you left on Thursday–it was 9am. Now it’s Sunday, 6pm. 

But sometimes, it almost feels like February 13th, and in those days, there is a slither of hope that he’d come running home to you.

It never happens.

It’s quiet in your apartment, save for the sound of the rain that seemed a little louder in the living room, and the distant radio you’d left on in hopes it would fill in the gaps of silence. You think quiet is something you should be familiar with, but you can’t seem to escape the strangeness of how certain sounds can be so deeply missed–footsteps padding to pick you up, the scratch of a pen, the rustling of papers, the clicking of a laptop, and the mumbling under his breath. 

The only other sound accompanying the rain now is your stifled sobbing, trying not to be loud, trying not to be deafening–as if volume has something to do with taking away the pain. 

You crave to be released from the world that was once Ryland’s too. Now he’s fallen out of it, and you’re stuck mourning someone you’re not sure is dead or alive, or is coming back to you. You’re stuck pleading the dimming sun for answers, for reasons why. You futilely ask if somewhere, in a place between Earth and wherever he was headed, he feels the same weight of a heart coming down with pain, your pain.

You don’t think you can take the quiet anymore. His silence is deafening. The apartment used to be brilliant, used to contain his constellations of ideas. Now, it was a grave of buried hopes and buried conversations that you will never have with him.

To satiate the silence, you call the only number you know. The only other person who bears the same weight of unanswered questions when Ryland left, the same pain. His twin brother.

And maybe Colt shouldn’t have been surprised. This isn’t something he isn’t used to–your number, calling at odd hours of the day. And like routine, he drops anything he’s doing so he can accompany you. That’s the least he can do for his brother.

At least that’s what he tells himself.

There’s something very sad and lonely in the air when Colt enters what was once your shared apartment with Ryland. You’d given him your spare keys when news broke of Ryland in space, and his twin brother has been trying his best to take care of you, to pick up the pieces that Ryland had left without warning.

“(Name)?” 

Colt hears you before he sees you, quiet sniffling leading him to the living room. 

You’re anchored on the seat by the window, staring dimly at the harsh patter of the rain with your back hunched over. Your leg is folded, chin on your knee, and you don’t notice how drenched the poor man is beside you, braving through the rain because of one call from you. 

He notices the traces of tears on your cheeks, like you’d been crying for hours. He ponders over leaving you alone—maybe he could sit quietly on the couch, waiting until you addressed him, or maybe he should talk to you. 

The pour of the rain is punctuated by the sound of the radio, and a familiar tune plays on the radio. 

An idea pops in his head. 

Colt walks over to where you’re seated, standing there, staring at your hands. There is a hesitation in his breath, in the way he moves to outstretch his hand towards you. 

You move to look at him, and the sight of him shocks you every single time.

He looks exactly like Ryland, the same expressive brows, the same blonde hair falling untidily across his forehead. Even his eyes. His eyes that are currently fixed on your face and on your hands are the same color–blue and brilliant.

There’s a stirring in your chest that parallels heartache. 

Colt still has his hand outstretched, and you’re not sure what he wants to do. Your eyes are still red and swollen from crying, and you’re sure your nose is in a similar state.

You look at him with a questioning look, but he just gestures at his hand. You comply with your own, and almost instantly, he closes his fingers around yours. 

The shape is familiar, the same broad palms, the same nails. But his hands are rough and scarred where Ryland's would've been a little smoother. Calloused from years of stunt work and hard landings. There are tiny scars scattered across his knuckles. Evidence of a life entirely his own.

You try hard not to think about it, flattening the thought before it can grow teeth.

Before you can ask what he's doing, he's pulling you toward him. Not close enough to be alarming. There’s still a good gap between you both, just enough for you to feel the most human you’ve felt in a while.

You don't realize you're moving until you are.

Colt sways the pair of you gently to the music, just a little off-beat. His movements are uncoordinated, and he’s swinging your intertwined hands back and forth. You’re not sure he’s done this before, and in this light, he looks nothing like Ryland. Just Colt, a stranger turned friend trying to make you smile. 

“You’re bad at this.” You whisper.

“I know.” 

Before you can stop him, he’s spinning you beneath his arm. The suddenness allows a startled laugh to escape from your mouth, and the sound surprises the both of you. It only encourages him. 

He has spent months trying to drag sunlight back into a room and has finally managed a single ray. A silver lining.

You and Colt dance in the living room, cheeks nipped crimson by the sandpaper winds of the rain and the cold summer, and your feet stumble against his, and he nearly trips over his own feet, and you've danced through almost the entirety of the space of your apartment, and you’re not quite sure he should be leading, but he doesn’t seem to be backing down.

Because that’s just who Colt is. He has always thrown himself into extreme situations, thrown himself into danger, into sadness, and he commits to it completely. He is someone who is not afraid of anything, the same person who keeps you grounded with his cheap clothes and messy hair, and a deep caring you never asked for but need.

Colt takes another step toward you before spinning away again, under your arms, you under his, and his timing is so fucking awful, and at one point he almost crashes into your dining table, but he never once lets go of your hands. 

You didn’t know until now how much you needed a moment like this. The both of you. A moment that felt sweet, that finally allowed a few minutes of rest. A comfort that momentarily interrupts the sadness that is bound to seep its way in again in a few hours. 

For a second, grief loosens its grip.

You’re swaying now, left and right and left and right and your fingers are still tangled together, and the song is dying down, but neither of you make an effort to speak. You simply look at each other, letting the memories of the past few months pass. There is a ghost of a smile brushing on both of your lips.

There is something strangely intimate about this moment, about being seen when you are grieving. You’d never told him, but you’d seen him too, crying when he thought no one was looking. You’d heard him mumble a prayer, a plea to bring his brother back home. Similarly, Colt’s seen it all–the continuous calling, the sleepless nights, the way your eyes always seem to wander, always searching the sky. 

He knows enough to memorize the shape of your sadness, knows enough to know where it lives. And he’s trying so desperately to keep the both of you afloat.

“I’m sorry for calling you,” you say suddenly. “You really don’t have to come all the time whenever I do.”

Colt’s features immediately soften at your sudden confession.

“I just…” You swallow. Your throat feels dry. It feels hard to speak. “I don’t know. It’s a little easier with you here.”

His heart drops to his stomach. “I’ll always come.” Colt says, and it sounds dangerously sincere. And he’s looking at you a certain way. Like he wants you to really listen to what he’s about to say. “I’d do anything if you asked.” 

You hate that he’s being so kind, and you hate the way your heart flutters at his words. You don’t want to think about what that means, what he means. 

The distance between the both of you suddenly feels important. Necessary. A safety buffer from a line neither of you are supposed to cross. 

You shift your weight from side to side, shuffling your feet, and you feel his hands squeeze yours. You almost wish he could be a little closer, but you know if he were, you’d feel suffocated with the pressure of guilt, or from something else entirely. You’re not so sure anymore.

And just as easy as this moment had come to you, pain rushes in again, relentless in its pursuit.

Ryland and Colt are not the same people. 

Colt was not the boy you had lost to the stars.

You know this. You have always known this. Yet some selfish, grieving part of you keeps searching, trying to find traces of the man you lost, trying to gather pieces of him in the person who looks exactly like him, but just isn’t him.

You selfishly imagined him in every moment with his brother, imagined dancing with him, imagined looking into his eyes instead. And you’re unknowingly breaking Colt as you search to remember Ryland. 

You had broken into his walls, shattered them down, tried to steal Ryland’s likeness, and Colt let it all happen. He stands there, answering every phone call, staying awake with you through nights when sleep feels impossible, and he watches you search his face for someone else. 

And he sees the devastation in your eyes, when you realize that he didn’t have Ryland’s habits, his light, his entire being. You loved a man among the stars, not the one grounded on Earth. And yet he still tries to make you smile, and every time you do, he’s unsure if it’s genuine or because you’d imagined giving it to someone else–and it fucking hurts. 

It hurts because somewhere along the way, he stopped seeing you as his brother’s girlfriend, stopped seeing you as an obligation. And he feels guilty because he knows it’s wrong, but he can’t stop himself from wanting. There is nothing moral about falling in love with the woman his brother left behind, but he can’t seem to stop himself. 

And he tries so hard to convince himself he’s only seeking you because you are the closest thing he has left of his twin. You are the last thing his brother loved. Colt tells himself that often–a repeated prayer, a continuous and painful reminder that you are not his. It’s just grief reaching for grief. Loss recognizing loss.

Nothing more. 

Nothing more.

Nothing more.

And yet, he will still pick up your calls in a heartbeat, and do anything you asked him to. And he will keep letting you because he loves his brother, and he misses him too, and you remind him of a time when he was still a twin.

Outside, a deep black blankets the sky. The stars start to scatter themselves across the sky, and Colt sees the familiar distant look in your eyes, the wandering gaze to the skies, searching for the man that neither of you can reach.

You don’t know how to stop searching. Colt doesn’t know how to tell you that every time you do, he feels himself losing his brother all over again.

[rockylandphm]

the blind date trap

pairing: colt seavers x reader

synopsis. colt owes ryland, so he cashes in the favor by going to a blind date and pretending to be his twin brother. the problem is, he thinks he might’ve just met the love of his life but she keeps calling him ryland! (4.0k words)

It’s the end of autumn when Ryland Grace finally takes advantage of the favor his brother owed him a few years back. “Hey Colt. Remember Sydney?”

The man in question, currently halfway through stealing orange juice from Ryland’s partition of the fridge, pauses in his heist to blink up at his brother uncomprehendingly.

“That doesn’t really narrow anything down.”

Ryland sighs before adding, “The rooftop?”

The memories flash by Colt in the blink of an eye, and his face clears from the confusion it held earlier to one of mortification. “I don’t like where this conversation is heading.” 

He empties the carton of orange juice in a glass, desperate to flee the scene of the crime, but Ryland’s already halfway towards the kitchen to try and corner his older brother of a few minutes.

“Remember what you told me? Exact words.”

“Ryland—”

“Exact words.” He pushes, intent on what he’s asking. Colt can all but grimace at the memory.

Setting the carton of orange juice down, he sighs and slumps dramatically as if he was physically pained by the concept of the accountability of his words and actions. “I said I owe you one.”

“Good, there you go.” Ryland mimics the tone he uses on the kids he teaches when he’s trying to get a point across, and Colt all but shoots him a glare at being babied. “Well, I’m gonna need that favor now.”

“No.”

“I haven’t even asked yet!”

“Don’t care. I know that voice.” Colt points at his brother suspiciously with the empty carton. “That’s your ‘this is about to ruin my evening’ voice, and I don’t think I appreciate the sentiment.”

Ryland ignores him. “Listen. I have a blind date tonight, but apparently Ilyukhina is unaware of the blind aspect of a blind date so she showed her a picture of my face.” 

Colt’s mouth drops. And for a moment, he just stares at his brother. Until a few seconds pass and he starts to laugh. And he keeps laughing—in that mouth wide open, head tilted forward, hands clutching the stomach kind of laughter. “Oh, absolutely not.”

If murder wasn’t illegal, one would’ve already been committed in this very moment.

“We’re twins. It’s not like she’s going to kno— okay, will you stop laughing?”

“Ry, you have to understand how insane this sounds. Come on, that sounds like the plot of a really bad sitcom.” Colt’s shaking his head, trying to wipe away the remains of laughter in the corner of his eyes, but his mouth is still twitching a little from the aftermath of laughing a little too hard. “Besides, why can’t you just go yourself? Are you chickening out?”

“I am not chickening out. I got pulled into a meeting.” Ryland exhales sharply through his nose, voice deeper when he says 'not' and currently visibly trying not to strangle his brother with anything within reach, which is quite a number of things—the rag cloth, the strings of his hoodie, his own hands. 

Instead, he continues speaking, “Just pretend to be me for an hour. I’ll try to make it after the meeting.”

And with the gravity of the situation, he adds one last word, “...please.”

Well, that one definitely lands and Colt has to pause from gulping down the orange juice he’d stolen. And he thinks he should relish in this moment longer, his brother begging him. It doesn’t happen very often. He’s usually reprimanded by his twin, not pleaded with.

“Oh, you’re desperate.”

Ryland’s eye twitches, and he resists the urge to pinch his nose bridge. “All you really have to do is show up, smile, don’t flirt too much–”

“Impossible restriction.” Ryland drops his face into his hands, groaning loudly at his brother’s response, and before he can reply with a snide remark, Colt asks, “What if she asks a question I can’t answer?”

“Colt, you’ve known me all my life.” Ryland deadpans, heaving a stage-worthy sigh.

“Fair point.” Colt sighs. “You're really asking me to commit identity theft? You think this is going to work?”

“Yes. So, will you do it?”

Colt ponders on the question because technically, he did owe Ryland a favor, and he was only asking for an hour of his time. And, in all honesty, Colt thinks he can pull of a perfect Ryland Grace so it was a way to boost his own ego. And what was a date anyway? He’s been on multiple dates before. 

Even with an answer, he lets the silence stretch for a few seconds more, just to be annoying. Just so he can see the way Ryland anxiously taps on the kitchen counter with his fingers, or his feet on the ground. And when Colt has enough satisfaction, finally, he says, “Fine.”

Ryland visibly relaxes. “Thank you.”

“But if she falls in love with me, that’s on you.” 

The relaxed features on Ryland’s face contorts into a somewhat disgusted face. “You’re ridiculous.”

The air is cool in that early-evening way that denotes the slow tipping of autumn into winter. The city glows a warm orange, and there’s laughter spilling out from crowded restaurants whenever the doors open. 

Colt checks his phone again. Ryland had given you his number, claiming that he’d suddenly had to change numbers due to scammer calls and phishing schemes. And he all but stares at the same message reflecting, that you were on your way. 

It stares back at him.

He rubs the space between his eyes and sighs. This is a terrible idea, a terrible terrible idea. Still, Colt thanks Fuck for choosing the day he’s not masked in his own injuries or little scars from stunt work, picks a day where he actually looks like he has his shit together, and not a man about to commit identity fraud. 

“Ryland?,” a soft voice. 10 jars of honey in the way you speak, but Colt recognizes that this was about to be the start of an evening full of lies. And then he sees you, and Colt looks beyond amazed. 

Suddenly, he’s nearly convinced there is something significant standing behind him, because what is the connotation of the beauty he’s being subjected to, the same beauty who is looking up at him with a hesitant smile. 

Colt pauses, which if Ryland was here to see it would know that it was always a bad sign because it means he’s thinking, really thinking. And he is, he knows this is the exact moment he could stop everything. 

Instead, he says, “yeah.”

Your smile widens just a little, and there’s something endearing about the way you press a hand briefly against your chest. “Oh good. I was terrified I’d accidentally agreed to meet a serial killer.”

Colt snorts. “Well, disappointing start for you, then.”

“You joke,” you say, narrowing your eyes slightly as you step closer, “but statistically speaking, I was taking a real risk tonight."

You look up at him, looking up at his disheveled hair from the wind outside. It curls slightly near the ends, stubborn in a way Ryland’s is too. "Your hair's a little longer than in your photo."

“Ha, you know hair. Grows… grows at no specified rate." Woah, what the hell. He didn't even mean to perfectly imitate Ryland in that moment. "Sorry, could you remind me how long do blind dates usually take before one person decides to fake a family emergency?”

You laugh, and Colt feels something shift in the air. “Maybe around twenty minutes. Sorry, we’re still a little ahead of schedule. You’re still stuck with me for 17 minutes more.”

Colt can’t help but smile back at you because the thrill in your smile is too wholesome not to. “Shall we head inside then? Got to make those 17 minutes count.”

“Yeah. That would be ideal.”

The hostess leads you toward the patio seating, and it’s quaint, but incredibly breathtaking. The warm lighting does a great deal at creating an almost comfortable environment. And it’s the perfect spot that the blurred headlights and the city lights reflect just at the huge glass window behind you. Really, perfect for a first date. 

Colt pulls out the chair for you, something that’s just taught in the How To Be A Gentleman handbook, and tucks you into the table before he takes his own seat.

“I should tell you right now that I’m a little terrible at first dates.” You say the moment you're settled in.

“You seem fine.”

“That’s because you just met me. It’s only been like five minutes.”

He smiles despite himself. “It gets worse?”

“Dramatically worse.”

“Good. I’m excited to see that.”

The waiter assigned to you arrives with two menus and a bottle of service water, and you thank him politely as you take a copy, flipping through it without really reading.

And by the time you order your drinks and the food, a few conversations have already passed.

“Were you nervous to come here?” You ask more for yourself, but you’re still curious what his answer would be. 

“Maybe a little.” Nevermind the reason for his nervousness was the identity theft he was committing. He’s still trying to get used to you calling him Ryland without it surprising him each time.

“Good.” You mirror his response from a few minutes earlier, and he can’t help but huff out a laugh. Though, despite his laughter, he still notices the way your shoulders visibly loosen at his response, like you’d almost hoped that would be his response.

“Good?”

“Yeah cause I was nervous too. It makes me feel less stupid to know you were too, even if it was just a little.”

Colt watches the way you fidget lightly with your sleeve as you speak. Your fingers keep smoothing the fabric over your wrists before immediately letting go again. 

“You shouldn’t feel stupid.” He interjects, trying to ease your nerves. 

“That’s easy for you to say.”

“What do you mean?”

“I haven’t told you what I did yet.”

He smiles. There’s something about the way you say it, like you’re about to change his life, tell him the craziest story. “What did you do?”

“I changed outfits three times.”

“That’s normal.”

“Four times.” You glance at him, your cheeks pink, and he has half a mind to tell you just how strange the sight makes him feel.

“Still normal.”

“And I arrived way too early so I had to walk around the block twice. And then I almost cancelled.”

This time Colt’s smile softens around the edges. You’re so honest and so easy to talk to, and so quick with conversation. You’re someone who can make anyone feel at home, and you’re charming without intending to be, and that's exactly the problem. Colt has known you less than an hour and somehow you're already slipping through his walls.

"You know," he says, leaning back in his chair, "I don't think I've ever met anybody who admits that on a first date."

You groan immediately. "See? This is why I almost cancelled."

"No, I mean it." Colt shakes his head. "Most people would've taken that information to the grave."

Your smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. He watches it for a second before asking, "Why'd you almost cancel?"

“I don’t know,” you admit quietly, glancing down at the table. “I always think things will be awkward before they happen.”

“And does it feel awkward right now?”

You look back up at him then with your head tilted, and you can almost picture the glint of hopefulness in his eyes but you don’t want to assume. “Just a little.”

Colt leans further back in his chair like he’s relaxed. He isn’t, really. But he wants you to believe he is because a few minutes into the date, you’d already turned him into a sap. And relaxed is way cooler than sappy.

He really does not want to think about how sappy he feels right now. He doesn’t want to think about the feeble stutter in his heart whenever you laugh. He's already lying to you. Developing feelings on top of that feels like building a second bad idea on top of the first one.

“Oh, you’re a science teacher, right? What’s that like?”

Right. Jesus, he forgot he was still pretending to be Ryland. You really have to stop smiling at him like that. He’s starting to like you, and it’s not good on his conscience that he’s pretending to be his brother, and that you think he is his brother.

“It’s uh, good.” Colt says carefully.

You rest your chin against your hand. “What’s your favorite thing to teach?” You ask like you’re genuinely curious, and for a second Colt has the answer, but you’re looking at him so intently that his brain empties completely. 

Think, Colt. You attended your brother’s graduation, what the hell was it that he studied? Astronomy? No, it’s something with little things and life. 

“Molecular biology!”

Your eyes widen with immediate interest. “Really? For eighth graders?”

“Yeah,” Colt says, nodding like a man moments away from being exposed from a grave sin. “I love molecules. Tiny organisms. Cells. Little… science fellas.”

You stare at him for exactly one second before breaking into laughter, and Colt finds himself watching, drinking up your movements. You just, you laugh with your entire face, and your happiness just spills into everything and it’s so infectious. The way your eyes widen slightly, the way your shoulders fold inward, like you’re genuinely delighted instead of politely amused.

Fuck, he wants to keep making you laugh. He wants to keep hearing your laugh.

Something warm twists in his chest, and Colt has the deeply alarming realization that there is something blooming inside of him and it’s akin to romance. He certainly did not expect to meet someone like you tonight. And shit, his heartbeat is doing something genuinely humiliating inside his chest. 

“You don’t really talk like a teacher,” you say after a moment. “Come on, little science fellas?”

“That’s the official term.” 

“Stop lying to me!” He laughs at your being flabbergasted, eyes turning into crescents. 

“Okay, okay. Here, I’m gonna talk like a teacher.” Colt straightens immediately in his chair. 

Your smile turns teasing. “Oh yeah?”

“Here it goes.” He clears his throat dramatically. “The mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell.”

He delivers it with complete sincerity. Smug for exactly one second. Then your laugh breaks loose again and his expression softens helplessly. 

“Oh my god,” you say.

“Sorry. That’s all I got.”

“No, that was perfect.” You shake your head, grinning down into your drink. “You looked so proud of yourself too.”

And the scene of you smiling that greets him is so gentle, so soft, that it takes him a moment to catch up to what you’re saying. He knows you mean something else, that he should be proud of his stupid joke or for remembering something he learned in high school, but he looked proud for an entirely different reason.

He’d made you laugh again. He’d heard you laugh again. 

So, he replies, in a little white lie, “I really was.”

Colt realizes immediately after, with that same deep undertow of shame, that he is caught in the jaws of a trap entirely of his own making. And he can’t stop walking willingly deeper into it.

He thanks Fuck that not long after, the food arrives and for a moment, the sounds of the city accompany the pair of you as you eat—silverware clinking somewhere inside the restaurant, distant traffic below, the low hum of conversation from nearby tables. It allows him a moment to catch himself, to try and stabilize his heart.

But how can he really when you keep looking at him. Then quickly looking away. Then back again, before darting away again. Finally, you sigh. “Sorry.”

“For what?”

“I keep looking at you.”

A smile twitches on Colt’s lips. “I think that’s supposed to be my line.”

You laugh quietly, ducking your head in the palms of your hands. The sight of your smile makes him laugh a little too.

“Why are you looking at me?” He inquires, his grin lopsided as follows the lilt of your movement, the way you hide your face in your hands, and he can’t help but seek for your eyes. “Don’t hide from me.”

You lower your hands slowly, peeking at him through your fingers first before finally answering in such a clear, and almost sweet tone. “You just look really pretty, and you’re really good at paying attention to everything.”

Colt’s stomach twists as his ears registers your words and somewhere during it, he grows redder than before and his palms are suddenly becoming clammy and he’s rubbing the back of his neck. How do you always catch him off guard like this?

He blinks once. Then twice. And maybe ten times more.

That's genuinely the nicest thing anyone's said to him in a while. "Oh."

He’s still looking at you even after the silence that follows, amazed and flattered that someone could ever say that about him, that you could say that about him. And he’s trying so hard not to look like he’d just been called pretty.

“Sorry,” you say quickly. “Am I talking too much?”

“No.” He immediately interjects, coming back to look at your eyes. Something inside him is still stuttering as he tries to focus after you’d just complemented him.

“I usually do.” You glance away briefly, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear and Colt personally has to fight down the urge to reach out and tug the slip of hair back down to your face. “I’m doing it right now.”

“Then keep doing it.”

You pause, and a smile slowly starts to creep back on your lips. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“You know, I noticed it’s been more than an hour since our date started. Do you no longer have that family emergency you have to fake?”

Colt smiles at the repetition of the joke he’d said earlier in the evening, before realizing you’re waiting for him to say something. There’s still that same softness pulsing inside of him, slowly growing and growing and growing. “I’m invested now.”

“In what?”

He lets out a soft breath, shoulders hunching forward slightly as he bends over to be a little closer to you. His expression changes into something more serious. “You."

Your smile changes then—softer, crooked, almost shy. Your limbs are starting to feel loose, and your chest tightens and blooms with warmth.

“That’s a very nice thing to say, Ryland.”

The name lands wrong in his chest, but he doesn’t want to dwell on it. He can pretend much longer, especially after receiving a text from his brother earlier that the meeting would run later than expected. Colt had you for the night, and he intends on making it last.

“Well,” Colt says, “I like you.”

Your eyes widen slightly, and you flush at the sudden confession. Your lips part, wanting to say something, but all the vowels and consonants twist in your mouth, and all you can manage is a small “Oh.”

Shit.

You watch as the color rushes into his face, like spilling wine on a paper towel, and he’s covering his mouth with his hand, and he’s struggling to meet your eyes.

“That came out weirdly fast,” he says immediately, trying to catch himself. His eyes are wide and almost panicked, and it’s so endearing because he looks like he’s ashamed of the way he’s softening and coming unraveled and untangled in front of you.

“No, it’s okay.” You smile. “I just wasn’t expecting you to say it out loud.”

He pauses, and you see him filing through potential responses or excuses but give up midway.

“Yeah,” he chooses honestly instead. “Neither was I, honestly.”

“Most people wait until at least dessert.” You tease, glancing at him over the rim of your glass, and this time, when he looks at you, his face is full of nothing but fondness twinged with embarrassment. You don’t know how the two emotions are able to coexist on his face at the same time. 

“I feel embarrassed. Was that intense? It was, wasn’t it?”

“A little.” you say softly. 

“Just a little?”

“Okay, maybe a moderate amount. But it was nice.”

You smile at each other, and neither of you are able to keep the blush from your own cheeks.

By the time dinner ends, the city outside has morphed into a blue-black evening with stars littered randomly in the blanketing sky. The cold air rushes in as the two of you step out onto the sidewalk together, and Colt’s hand brushes lightly against the small of your back while guiding you around another couple exiting the restaurant.

The touch lingers half a second too long.

You notice.

“I’m glad I came,” you admit quietly.

“Yeah?” He asks, almost too quiet to catch, almost like he can’t believe it. 

“Yeah.”

“Even after changing outfits four times?” He nudges your shoulder with his, and you laugh.

“Five actually.”

“Five? I think you failed to mention that.” There’s a ghost of a smile on his lips, and he’s trying so hard to fight the grin that’s threatening to show, but you just have that effect on people. You’re just so earnest. “Which outfit won?”

You gesture down at yourself. “This one.” 

You say it with such happiness and enthusiasm that Colt can’t help but stare at you and the cold that catches pink along your cheeks, and your hair that’s shifting softly in the wind, and how bright your eyes look under the streetlights. God, he really thought he was doing his brother a favor by coming here, but Ryland might’ve accidentally done one for Colt instead.

His heart gives one hard, helpless thud against his ribs as his eyes travel up and down your outfit.

"I've been meaning to mention it all night, but you look really pretty."

The blood thumped so loudly in your ears that you almost didn’t hear him. “Thanks. You don't look so bad yourself."

A comfortable silence falls, like neither of you want to leave quite yet. And then, "Ryland?"

"Hm?"

"I'm really glad tonight wasn’t as awkward as I thought it would be,” you admit.

Colt blinks. “So you still think it’s awkward?”

“Yeah,” you say thoughtfully. “But like… the good kind.”

“There’s a good kind?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s that?”

You look at him for a second. “When you’re nervous because you want someone to like you.”

Colt’s heart nearly stops. That was the final blow. Of all the things you could’ve said, this was not something Colt could’ve ever braced himself for. He looks away immediately, rubbing at the back of his neck again. It’s really not in his nature to falter, but then again, he really can’t help it with you, can he?

Not when this is what your heart is like. Like there’s no need to put pressure when it’s something as warm and easy as this.

“You’re blushing, Ryland.”

“I can’t really help it when you say things like that.”

He lets out a helpless laugh at the name. He has half a mind to tell you he actually goes by ‘Colt’ even though it couldn’t have been further away from ‘Ryland’.

Still, he swallows it to enjoy these last final moments with you. 

“Goodnight, Ryland.”

“Goodnight.”

A silence falls between you both before you take a few steps away. He mirrors your actions, albeit a little more tentatively.

“Ryland?” 

Colt immediately turns back at the interjection of your voice, looking at you with that same look from earlier. It’s almost fond, almost hopeful. And Colt hovers there, waiting. 

“Do you want to walk me home?”

You’re trying so hard to keep your voice monotone. He’s trying so hard not to smile, and in all honesty, he should absolutely say no, he should tell you the truth right now before this turns into something impossible because he knows that if he continues to know you, he won’t be able to stop falling for you. Instead, he answers almost immediately, “I’d want nothing more.”

And while walking home, he finds himself glancing down at your hand, wondering what it would be like if he could just reach over and intertwine his fingers with yours, or kiss your cheeks, or make you laugh again.

And somewhere between the restaurant and your apartment, with your shoulders brushing once accidentally, then a few more on purpose, and your footsteps falling into tandem next to his, and your laughter warming the cold night air around him, Colt realizes he is completely, catastrophically fucked.

[doctor-ryland-grace]

I imagine Ryland’s place like the one that guy had in Ratatouille

This quite frankly. Cracked me up. Like don't disrespect LINGUINI. Likes, comments and reblogs always appreciated. This was truly a labor of love to write. Stay awesome, guys. Jazz Hands. - Em.

Title: Spatial Awareness. Pairing: Ryland Grace x Female!Reader. Rating: M, 18+. ( Sexual content, male receiving, female receiving, P in V, no condom, but pls wrap it before you tap it folks. This is the most self-indulgent piece of work ever and it's p*rn with a plot BABY. Let Ryland say 'fuck'! ( a few times ) Also....... ryland discovers he has a........ breeding kink dont look at me ) 18+, MINORS DNI. Words: 13.1K. ( HOLY CRAP. ) Summary: Ryland shoots his shot and invites you over to this apartment for the first time. Things don't go as planned, but that's the thrill of being in a relationship with such a brilliant Molecular Biologist.

“Okay, so before you go in…” Ryland said quickly as the door swung open just enough for you to see a sliver of your boyfriend. He was hovering in a way that you could only see a tiny bit behind him, like he might physically block you if necessary if you decided to push your way in. “I just want to clarify that this is not… the final draft of this apartment. This is, at best, an early draft. Not even that. Just a layout of the story, the jist if you will.”

You glanced at him, amused in how he appeared smooshed between the doorframe and the door itself, like Ryland was using his body as a seal. His glasses skewed a bit on his face from the positioning he had. You lifted your hand and re-adjusted the overnight bag you quickly packed up after getting the coveted ‘Do you want to sleep over at my place tonight instead of yours?’ text from the cute blonde who was effectively barricading where you would be sleeping.

“You literally invited me over.”

“Yes, I did but that was before I realized it was a terrible idea and now you’re here so we can’t really go back.” He continued quickly, words jumbling together as his mouth mouthed too fast for his brain. His fingers were gripping the door so tightly that some parts were red and some where white from inert pressure. 

“You’re going to find out why your apartment is the golden child in this relationship. I mean --- my little guy here, square footage is objectively limited. Not catastrophically limited, but enough that if you were expecting, say, defined spatial zones, you will be very disappointed.”

You blink, processing that as your mouth fell open in silence. Not that space was going to be an issue, you thought to yourself and tilted your head in some hope that you could look over his shoulder inside. You could not, Ryland caught your eye movement and shifted his body accordingly so you could not peek.

“You’re seriously worried about space. When you invited me. To spend the night.”

Ryland seemed to almost prickle at that, realization hitting him at the suggestive tone that his text must have had. Not that he had sent it without thinking about that, which… maybe he did, but the second you texted him that you were on your way, he had been pre-occupied about the measly offering he had for you to sleep in. His apartment. His very expensive, very small apartment.

“I know it doesn’t make sense when you put it like that but---”

“I’m coming in.” You announced with minor authority.

As gently as you could, with some force behind the intent, you pushed on the door and watched your boyfriend fumble a bit backwards as you pushed your way inside. You can hear him sputtering something nonsensical as the motion happens, in some cutely sad way to prevent you from going forward but alas. He was cut off mid-sentence and you were too fast for him.

The apartment was small.

Not messy, perse. It was almost painfully oblivious that Ryland had spent some time before your arrival cleaning. It was a tad chaotic. You spotted keys on his kitchen counter, splayed next to his bag. And next to that? His helmet. That was obviously the first stop he made when he came home, dumping things out the moment he arrived and went with the flow of the room. You found yourself doing similar, just resting your overnight bag there for later inspection before bed when you would actually need things from it.

You pressed on, trying very desperately to ignore Ryland who was hovering so closely behind you. He was watching with incredible detail. For something. Anything. Distaste to cross your expression. It was just a matter of time and he found himself biting his right thumb nail. He was a nervous ball of nervousness. He didn't do great with people coming to judge whatever little personal space he had, and your opinion mattered to him. Probably more than he was willing to admit. He just wanted to yell at you, ask you what you were thinking but… That wouldn’t be very kind of him. Ryland was still a nice host after all. A sweaty, anxious host, his blue eyes watching your smaller body shift into his living room that came right across the small kitchenette that definitely required strategy to use. 

There was a small couch tucked against the wall, a very narrow coffee table that was covered with a stack of ungraded papers and a few science books that obviously had been read over and over again by their beat up appearance and a modest TV tucked opposite of the couch, against the wall that you assumed was shared with the bedroom.

It wasn’t that it was small… It was…compact. Everything was close together in a way that felt intentional, even if it wasn’t originally planned that way. It was warm. It was very… Ryland. In the best way.

Behind you, you could hear Ryland exhale hard and you could see his shadow playing from the small light in the living room. He was rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay, so you’ve seen it. And now I’m going to explain what’s going on---”

“It’s nice.” You said gently, looking at the living room once more. Not judging, but admiring the smaller details that made it so cozy. The cardigan thrown over the back of the small couch, a pair of balled up socks by the couch that he must have missed during speed cleaning, there was one of his many punny science mugs sitting on a coaster. 

“You don’t have to say that.” He murmured, coming to stand beside you and bumping your shoulder.

“I’m not just saying it.” You bumped his shoulder back which earned you a small huff of appreciation from the tall blonde.

“It’s small.” Ryland was quiet next to you, his cheeks flaring with a small tingle of pink, arms crossing across his chest. 

“Yes.”

“The couch is uh…” He gestured vaguely towards that piece of furniture with a tiny internal cringe. “Questionable in both size and structural integrity.”

The tension in the air was palpable as your gaze drew to what he was presenting. He was sweating in places that should not be sweating as you rounded the living room, taking the smaller details in as you trailed your way to the couch. 

There was careful organization to the ungraded papers, overturned must have been graded already as they were in a separate pile. Turning around, the back of your knees pressed to the cushy couch, and with a leap of faith, you sat down slowly, looking at your boyfriend with wide eyes as you did. It creaked and Ryland felt like his entire life was about to face the end. He was chewing the inside of his mouth, patting his hands against his forearms that crossed his body.

Carefully, you raised your body weight and let it shift, feeling the cushions conform to you. “It seems fine to me.”

“That is a generous interpretation.” He noted your modesty, shuffling his socked feet towards you from the faux entrance of the living room considering it was more or less a shared space with the kitchenette.

“I like it.” You spread your fingers along the couch ledge and gave him a warm grin.

He blinked at you, flabbergasted at the… Compliment.  “On purpose?”

You giggled quietly, admiring how… Relaxed he looked in his own space. He was wearing a t-shirt, the design unknown right now as he still had his arms crossed, but he was also wearing a pair of sweatpants that were rather familiar ( it was his preference when he’d spend the night at your place ), a pair of grey socks and of course his golden framed glasses and plop of messy blonde hair you couldn’t wait to get your hands in. His blue eyes fixed on yours over the rims, one of his hands coming to tentatively rub his facial hair as you gave him a reply.

“Yes, Ryland. On purpose.”

You watched in the utmost amusement as the Meloecular biologist opened his mouth, popping it shut before re-opening in contemplation of the choice words he wanted to say. Nothing fathomable came out as he stretched out a small “Uhhh…. But this is… Uh…”

“Your apartment.” You helped him out a bit as a blush irradiated his cheeks “Yeah. I noticed. I’m sitting in it. On your couch.”

That seems to short-circuit him for a second and it took a solid minute or so to reboot his brain back into a conscious state enough to even consider a reply. 

“Well,” Ryland coughed, reaching up with one his hands and pushing his glasses up the bridge of his semi-prominent nose. Call it a nervous habit. “It's still not… Great. I mean, seating capacity alone is a problem.” 

He shuffled his feet together, socked toes crunching and relaxing as he drew the hand by his glasses to the back of his neck. Softly, he rubbed right where his hairline met the skin ‘round the top of his vertebrae. “There’s one couch, which you are currently occupying, and I…” He looked around the small space as if a second couch would just… Magically appear at will. “Do not have a second for myself to occupy.”

“There’s space right here.” The smile that you gave him was enough to get Ryland to melt, probably right through the floorboards of his older apartment building, straight to the foundation but… With a calm and rational breath in through his nostrils, he stayed as collected as he could when you patted the space next to you with enthusiasm.

There was one thing you noticed about your boyfriend and proximity. He always felt like he was invading personal space, even when given explicit permission. This, for example, fell right in line with his way of thinking, blue eyes staring at the space you were indicating as his mouth moved for his brain and before his instinct. 

“That seems… optimistic.”

“Ryland, it’s literally your apartment.” You laughed at how… Shy he was acting as if you two hadn’t interacted beyond an acquaintance level. The fact was very far from that, and the recollection quite frankly left you feeling heated between the legs. “It’s your couch!”

“Right. Okay. Sure. I will attempt to sit but I’m not to be blamed if it buckles under our weight. It’s… delicate.” 

Ryland edged closer to you, not breaking the unabashed eye contact you were giving him as he rounded the thin coffee table, feeling the back of his calves hit it as he rounded his much larger frame and stood beside you. Not sitting, but standing still.

It was in fact, a small space as you looked up at him with baited breath. You could feel his body heat next to you and he hadn't even sat down yet! Swallowing gently, you resisted the urge to scoot over as far as you could and drew your eyes down the backside of Ryland, careful to take in the details of his tightly knitted shoulders that were full of intense anxiety, the curve of the small of his back through the thin fabric of his shirt that bunched delictably right around the waistband of his sweatpants.

It got very small, very fast. You suddenly felt very prickly.

“This is exactly the kind of spatial limitation I was referring to.” He was gesturing again, another one of those nervous habits that became incredibly endearing. 

“Or,” You interrupted him without hesitation, letting your hand wrap around his slender wrist. Goosebumps exploded where you touched him, Ryland glancing down at the simple contact made with parted lips.“You could stop hovering like you’re about to evacuate and just sit like a normal person.”

You could see it on his face. He was going to protest, but as established earlier, you were faster than him and before a word could leave the otherwise rambling scientist, you tugged on his wrist unexpectedly. Just enough to throw him off balance.

The handsome man let out a rather startled sounding ‘Oh!’, leaving much for your imagination to dwindle on as he plopped down beside you rather unceremoniously. Closer than you had been all evening, your knee bumping against his own and your shoulders doing a delicious dance of grinding against one another as you both sunk in to get comfortable. 

“This is… significantly less distance than I imagined.” 

He said carefully, slowly, now realizing that the scent he was experiencing was yours. You were so close to him that Ryland could smell the faint outline of your soap, almost flowery around the edges but not overwhelmingly so, something silky that he wanted to wrap himself up in and under all of that was the most basic and instinctual scent of all and it caused a tiny snap in the deeper recesses of his brain. Funny thing, those pheromones are…

There’s a smile on your face that Ryland is attracted to now, his head turned towards you, neck muscles straining just a bit so he could… Stare. Yeah, he was staring. So what? “I think you’ll survive.”

“Obviously.” He finally cracked and gave you a cheeky grin, his beautifully white teeth glistening for you. You wanted to feel them biting at your skin, so badly but you were still treading uncertain ground. “But who knows what emotional turmoil this is causing me on the inside.”

You laughed softly at the joke he cracked, finally letting a semblance of familiarity wrap around the two of you. This was… no different than being on the couch at your place, Ryland thought to himself and let his gaze linger in yours. 

You looked so pretty… The lamp in his living room was admittedly… Not the best, but it did do a great job at softening your already sweet and perfect features. From the dip of your lips, to the curve of your jawline for his hungry eyes to devour, and the shadows that played along your cheeks as a blush rose against it. Yeah… You were ridiculously pretty. And you were sitting next to him on his all too small couch waiting for him to make the first move.

There was no quick retreat from Ryland this time as you met his eyes. There was no point in trying to find a distraction as the two of you eased your way into his personal space, Ryland willing to finally confess… That the room felt smaller now, but that was okay. It was more than okay, actually. As long as the only person he was sharing the tiny space with was you.

“Ryland.” You said, the name alone sending a shock of electricity down his spine. Coupled with your half-lidded stare, the tall blonde was about ready to disintegrate. 

It’s only amplified as you shifted a bit, the couch creaking under the weight change as you snuggled in a bit closer, letting one of your hands flatten on his thigh, squeezing the muscle as you used him for support to lean in. If it was possible to get hard right away, Ryland was unaware until this moment of your fingers digging what he imagined to be imprints right into his skin despite the fabric of his pants being a barrier. 

“Yeah…?” He whispered, the motion moving your eyelashes just a bit as you leered at his pink lips. He doesn’t move away, that’s a good sign. Neither do you, and that’s an even better sign for Ryland who was just… Suspended in minor disbelief that this was even happening.

It was you who closed the gap first, just enough that if he wanted to pull away he was more than welcome, noses bumping and your head tilting just enough for you to not poke your eye out with his glasses. There’s no signal that Ryland wanted to move at all as your breath co-mingle in the small space between you. Not even a kiss, your lips barely brushed along his, feeling the sensation of them conform against the motion, his beard tickling you and causing a smile to rise.

It’s soft at first, incredibly tentative as if you had never kissed before which was far from the truth. You had your fair share of makeout sessions on your plush couch under the metaphorical belt, this was a piece of cake, right? His hand lifted, hesitating mid-air before settling carefully at your side, fingers barely touching like he’s afraid to do too much. 

He could tell though that your shirt was incredibly thin from the warmth of your skin he was able to feel against his smooth fingertips. Probably on purpose, if you came here with the suggestion in mind that his text was sent within the first place.

Your bra and panties probably matched too, Ryland thought back to the few times you had gotten that far and preened that he knew that information and that… Appearances like that mattered, something Ryland never understood but he wasn’t complaining if it was one of your pretty, lacy sets that fit your body---

You shifted closer and tore him from that train of thought. The hand on his thigh had moved upwards to splay against the area right where his leg and hip connected at the femoral head. The muscle there twitched under your hand, satisfaction rising in you like an overfilled glass.

Ryland swallowed into the kiss, letting you take up the space that you needed despite there not being much left as you angled towards him and grasped at his shoulder with your free hand, squeezing the muscles of his upper leg, your hand moving just enough that you were able to trace the shape of his hard-on through his sweatpants with the tip of your pinky. Every move you were making now was full of intention and he was already an overstimulated mess.

The teacher under you made a quiet, surprised sound against your mouth that you happily swallowed up with open lips, letting your tongue seek refuge in his mouth as a result of his lips falling open in pleasure. And then something in him gives. That internal drive finally snaps into place, his brain reminding his senses that this was biological and he was more than okay to enjoy it for what it was. Hesitation melts into a small bit of confidence, his hand pressing a bit more firmly against you, grounding Ryland back in reality and not the clouds and keeping him steady as it felt like the room was spinning. It was his turn to tilt his head to deepen the affection, the action still clumsy as you got a bit more of his beard in your mouth than expected, but it was warmer, more affectionate and thought was clearly put behind it instead of straight panic. The way that he was leaning into you now made it seem like gravity was only doing half the work and he was meant to render against your body.

The couch creaked under the shift, but it seemed so far away as you were trying to turn towards him to get better access, it was harder to make out from the side than expected, you just had to laugh at the awkward position. Your knee slid against his, Ryland reacting to that immediately and pressing yours back as you were trying to practically claw your way onto him. Your balance tipped, unfortunately gravity did exist---

Ryland reacted on purely driven instinct, his strong arm coming up around you to keep you from slipping right off the edge of the small couch that was at fault for the situation you two were in, as if that were a problem. It most definitely was not. 

He pulled you closer in one remarkably smooth motion, your legs slotting themselves to rest on the outside of his thighs as you came into a straddling position, hands resting on his back, grasping so desperately at his scapula as you could feel his hipbones against yours now and with that, came the very warm sensation of his cock pressing desperately against his boxers and sweatpants against your clothed self.

You had to stop yourself from audibly begging for him to take his clothes off as your fingers tugged their way into his hair. Hard and calculated, you grasped it and earned yourself another muffled sound from your boyfriend. 

You had to break the kiss for a second just to breathe, pulling on his hair to do that motion and Ryland wincing in pleasure at that and looked at you through a half-lidded stare, his pretty mouth swollen from the intense makeout, a bit of saliva clinging to the bottom lip and stringing into his beard. You drew a hand down and wiped it with your thumb, Ryland kissing the appendage as a small ‘thank you’ as a laugh escaped into the air that he found himself swimming in. 

It’s almost breathless, but he can feel it in your chest as you pressed yourself fully against him with an equally breathy moan. He jolted at that, bringing his hips up in some futile attempt to get some relief that was quickly building up like a pressurized can.

“This is your fault…” 

You murmur to him, your lips falling to his neck and pressing heated kisses right along the slew of his jugular, up to the cove of his ear and then back down, this time, your teeth coming out to give him a sense of what your mouth could really do for him. A sliver of saliva follows your mouth and he finds himself bumbling out a quiet moan.

“My fault?” 

That was an echo, an equally out of breath Ryland spreading his long fingers against your waist, tugging up your shirt just enough for him to relish in a few inches of skin. You were burning up against him, it was so intoxicating as his fingertips traced along the small of your back, bare and uncensored, right above the curve of your ass and where the waistband of your leggings kissed your hips. 

“You and your ‘spatial limitations.’”

“I—” He started to argue against you, but there was no point as your mouth came crashing down on him again. And this time? There is no lapse of hesitation. Ryland’s grip on your backside tightens, letting the flat of his palms fall to grasp the back of your thighs to keep you steady against the grinding you were bestowing against his clothed cock.

He moaned again, straight into your mouth as your tongue met his and saliva was exchanged in a heated dance of intensity. Whatever leverage he has, he’s using as he grasps your thighs that much tighter to get you closer to him. The scientist can’t lean in, but you can press harder and you’re more than willing as you bring your hips against his again. Harder, with more intention of what the night was going to bring once you were both fully unclothed. 

When it’s time to pull back again, this time to the dismay of both of you, a bit sooner than you wanted, you didn't go far. You just pulled back enough to press your forehead against his. You can tell he’s re-booting. You can practically see the ‘error message’ flashing behind his pupil blown eyes. There’s barely any blue left at this point, they’re so darkened and sharply focused on your minute facial expressions. So much input at once, so little time to process. 

The kiss that turned into tonsil hockey, the proximity and sheer will of your weight against his and the illogically perfect set up that led to this moment. It was all too much for Ryland, and he was ready to explode. So were you, but you were easier to contain. Ryland… Bursted at the seams when given the chance. 

He blinked once.

And then again when you drew a hand up to straight his glasses for him as they had gotten quite askew in the heat of the moment. The couch creaked softly as your weight shifted, just enough for you to firmly press against him, essentially dry humping the poor scientist who didn't know what to do with that. So, he grasped your thighs tighter and aiding in your motion, allowing you to rest the palms of your hand against his shouldercaps to keep your weight steady. 

He knew what you felt like, fingers and cock enjoying the pleasure but this was… Different. He was already so overstimulated from the combination of you coming over in the first place, now the swinging of your hips against his, still clothed, still hot, caused drops of pre-cum to rise and absorb into his boxers. He could feel the moisture, he could only imagine what this was doing for you. 

You had to be hot and sticky, his fingers twitched against you. Ryland couldn’t wait to get his fingers in there just to see if his hypothesis was correct like you were his next greatest science experiment.

“Oh…” Ryland tossed his head back against the headrest. The sound was a choked off noise that was partial surprise, partial surrender. If this was all he was going to get from you tonight, then that was okay. He’d cum either way.

You leaned in, slower this time, and brought your mouth against his, enjoying the sensation of his prickly beard against your skin. Ryland’s mouth opened under yours immediately, a bit shy at first but with your tongue against his, that bursted and he was kissing you back. Desperately, so, so desperately and hungry like it had just been simmering under the surface waiting to be released. 

One of the hands from your thighs rose, lingering around your ass which he fumbled cutely with for a second before dragging up your spine with the tip of his finger to the back of your neck. He grasped it. Not cupping, not letting his touch graze. Ryland grabbed the back of your neck, letting his slender fingers tangle into your hair and it was his turn to swallow the strangled sound that came from your mouth as a result.

Urgency came to the forefront as your desires kicked into overdrive. The heavy contact your mouths were making deepened, almost like you were eating each other and in any other instances, you would have thought you looked ridiculous but you needed him. And you could tell it was a two-way street from the heavy hard-on between his legs that had been yummily pressing against you with every movement. 

The way that you were grabbing at his shirt, trying so hard to find purchase and pull it over his broad shoulders, the tender yet rough way that his fingers were fully holding the back of your head, telling you that you had no escape. This was a pure, unadulterated need on both fronts. 

The kiss was broken, both of you panting and mixing air between your bodies. "Bedroom.” Ryland’s voice comes out incredibly rough, only heard at times like this. He wasn’t very good at dirty talk, but he’d be darned if he wasn’t good at controlling the depth and intent of his vocal cords."The… The bed is… it has better weight distribution. And more… surface area." He was suppressing a moan.

You laughed at that, the action moving Ryland’s eyelashes. "You're such a nerd."

"I'm a nerd who wants to have sex with his girlfriend." He said confidently, a flicker of raw passion flashing in his deeply darkened irises. "Please?" You don’t have to answer with words, letting your lips fall onto his in a soft and quick motion as you pull back enough to stand. The couch creaks again, Ryland doing his best to ignore it as he followed you up with a grunt, a tiny bit ashamed at the tent in his pants, but that fades the moment he sees your eyes fall to look at it with your bottom lip between your sharp teeth. 

Your mouth watered just a bit. 

Straightening up, he tried to take a step towards the bedroom door to lead you there. He was a generous host after all. The only problem? You were still very tangled together. When he goes to move forward, you move back and with some sick and twisted combination of momentum and gravity, you’re sent staggering sideways. Your shoulder bumps against the wall with a soft ‘thud’ and you both flail in an awkward dance to regain some semblance of balance in the air, Ryland had fallen in after you in some attempt to stop you from falling and it resulted in the two of you breathlessly against the wall of his living room. “This is a classic failure due to spatial awareness.” He commented, his face inches away from yours, breath warm against your cheek and tugging you into a slow reminder that despite the blunder, you were still in for a good time. In the bedroom.

"Mmmm… Less talking….” You muttered to him, grabbing at the front of his shirt and urging him in for another heated kiss. This time around, Ryland decides to try a different tactic and uses his knowledge of leverage and physics. 

He tugs one arm around you, firmly tucked at your waist and his attempt at pivoting you both towards the bedroom door is a… sort of success with only a moment of two of lips breaking apart in the process. It works, for the most part. You shuffled sideways for a second, a laugh escaping your lips as your feet were getting tangled with his much like your tongue.

It was not your fault that you did not see the discarded shoes, letting out a very surprised squeal as you tripped. Ryland watched in almost slow motion, reaching his hands forward to help catch you but somewhere along the way, he definitely overcorrected and you both came slamming into the doorframe that led to the bedroom. He takes the brunt of it, his back hitting the wood with a rather sickening ‘thump’. “Are you okay?” You were somewhere between intense sympathy and a giggle at the expression scrunched onto his handsome face. He groaned quietly, still holding onto you.

"Yup. Okay…" The blonde panted, his eyes squeezed shut. "New plan. We're going to… disengage momentarily.” You nodded in agreement and bit your bottom lip again when he pushed you back slightly, just enough for him to let you go comfortably and you both could make it into the darkened bedroom without any more incidents. It’s a small space, smaller than the living room, at least you think so in the darkness, dominated by a full sized bed and a simple nightstand. Ryland reaches over you, flicking on the light switch which turns the small bedside lamp on with a cast of warmth. 

When you turn to face him, Ryland’s shoulders tensing for a moment at the realization that he forgot to tidy up his room, the moment of clumsy navigation is completely forgotten. His eyes are boring into yours with an expression of intense want. Not just want, you swallowed softly and felt wet between your legs in an unbearable way. 

He was looking at you like he needed you to breathe. Whatever distance was between you was gone in the blink of an eye, both of you moving in towards each other and with one determined step, you’re kissing again, hot and hard while Ryland is almost pushing you backwards in his arms towards the plush escape of his bed. The back of your legs hit the edge of the mattress a second later, and without hesitation, you fall back onto it with a smirk up at him. Ryland takes a second, letting himself look at you as your messy hair exploded with your motion down, your face was so pink and your lips so eager to please. He couldn’t believe what luck he had that you wanted him the same way he wanted you. 

He was careless, rightfully so, and followed you down. There was some attempt at being his namesake, at being graceful, but he mostly just collapsed on top of you in a tangle of awkward limbs. He was not… Good at being spontaneously sexy. He was going to have to work on that.

"Ah geez." Ryland grunted again, deep in his chest as his elbow dug slightly into your rib as he uttered a tiny, “Sorry, sorry… Let me just…” His large frame moved above you to get more comfortable. 

You giggled gently, moving to accommodate him above you and tucked your arms around his thick neck, "It's okay, baby. We made it to the bed!”

Carefully this time, he pushed himself up on his elbows so he could linger deliciously above you, one leg between your thighs and the other propped on your right side.

He was semi-straddling you and you finally got your first good glimpse at what the couch interaction had done to him. His hair was an absolute mess, not intentional like his style so often was, but it was caught in a sweeping motion, pieces sticking up in all sorts of directions. Against his tanned skin was a flustered blush that seeped down and disappeared down his neck and into his shirt. 

His glasses, which have somehow survived this far, were askew again and you… Kind of liked how it looked so you stopped yourself from straightening them. It was giving off ‘sexy, dishelved scientist who just discovered the newest element on the periodic table and now I’m going to fuck my girlfriend in celebration’ vibe. 

A mouthful, but it was hot. Ryland was hot. And it was clear as he looked down at you with a triumphant smile playing on his perfect lips, he was very aware that he was, even if it was just for this sliver of time.

"Now… where were we?"

So many words, too little time, you mind joked. And instead of answering your wordy boyfriend, you pulled him down for another eager session. This one was slower. Very intentional in the way that your mouth took its time to meld against his own instead of racketeering bruises from incredible impact. 

Keeping himself steady on one forearm, Ryland allowed this boost of confidence to reign supreme and his other large hand started to roam. From the very sweeping curve of your side, he was gentle in the motion that drew his thumb to brush against the underside of your wired bra. You moved against him, arching into the affection and a soft sign escaping your parted lips as you drew into the mattress a bit more. 

Ryland moved to shift his weight a bit in anticipation of getting your pesky thin shirt off and on the floor, followed a moment later by your bra, but that’s when it all happened. The bed, which had been adamantly groaning in protest under the combined weight of two humans, finally let out a long and ominous creak. There is a sharp crack of splintering wood under you and the entire side of the mattress drops with a rather loud and viciously violent ‘clunk’.

Both of you let out a surprised yelp or yell as you’re unceremoniously dumped off the side of the bed and onto the floor in a tangle of disgruntled blankets and pillows. Ryland landed on his back, your body weight shifting onto his and causing his breath to leave his lungs as you landed with a rather aggressive ‘oomph.” For just a second as you two collected what had happened, there was staggering silence.

Then… You started to laugh. It started off as a small giggling in your chest and built into a full blow, breathless, sort of straggling sound as you tilted your head back, Ryland watching you in shocked amusement for a few seconds as you shook from the action. Quickly, he pushed himself up onto his elbows below you, expression clearly marked with mortification. 

“Oh my god,” He muttered, his voice wavering, “I told you! I told you the structural integrity was questionable at best. This is a catastrophic failure of load-bearing support.” 

You kept your mouth shut for a moment before bursting out into another laughing fit as you didn't have it in you to tell him that the comments he made where about the couch and not the bed, thus his reductions of the situation were pointless.

“It’s fine, babe.” You gasped quietly, trying to get some air into your lungs as you wiped a tear of laughter from your right eye. 

“We’re fine. The bed might not be,” You looked over at it and winced, “But we’re fine.” He followed your gaze and looked at the broken bed frame, then back at you as a sheepish smile finally took hold of his otherwise worried expression. “Uh… This is not how I pictured this night going.” He admitted with a huff as you looked down at him, moving so you were propped against his chest.

"I can think of worse places to end up.” You suggested, leading your hand down to the waistband of his sweatpants. He stiffened again at that, having lost a bit of momentum due to the happenings but you were clearly ready to help out with that as you trailed your fingertips along the seam.

Ryland’s breath hitched for a second as it dawned upon him the suggestion. He was… Vanilla. If he racked his brain, he couldn’t really recall any moment where he had done anything outside of the bed. He swallowed hard, fumbling when he felt your fingers peak their way under the waistband. 

"Ha… Here? On the… on the floor?"

“Why not? All the blankets fell with us, it’s soft enough.” It was a good argument, Ryland didn't have much to say to that as he tilted his head from side to side trying to come up with one. Sex on the floor. Alright, we can do this--- And truth be told, you don’t really give him a chance to argue. Before Ryland could mutter a coherent sentence, you were pushing gently on his chest, feeling the delicious divot of his sternum under your fingers as you did so and instructed in silence for him to lean back against the now dysfunctional bed. 

With his mouth open, he did just that, eyes intensely fixated on you with an appealing split of curiosity and anticipation. The latter went as far as his cock, the twitching and spasming almost out of control for him to truly handle.

You moved, he admired, to snuggle in between his spread legs, aided only once he fully realized what you were doing. There was a locked eye contact as you held as tightly to his gaze as you could, leaning down and pressing a soft, open-mouthed and wet kiss to the fabric of his sweatpants, right over his very evident erection. 

Instantaneously, Ryland winced, letting in a sharp breath to tangle with the heat in his lungs before exhaling just as hard. It made such an appealing sound in the air, your eyes rolling back for a moment and letting the satisfaction rest in the pit of your stomach, slowly building to release. 

His entire bottom half seemed to spasm in response. You were taking your time as you so often did, letting your mouth rise and fall against the fabric, unbearable to the scientist but pleasurable to you as you watched him writhe. Your hands reached to his hips, stroking the skin tenderly as his shirt had ridden up just enough for you to enjoy that taut muscle of his navel.

It’s smooth skin there, save for the small happy-trail that started an inch or so below his belly button and dived to where you wanted your mouth to go, and no doubt, where Ryland was pleading for you to go as well as he raised his pelvic bone in response to your touches. 

The cold air of the free air was incredible to the overheated organ as you pulled down his sweatpants and boxers down in one harmonious tug. Ryland dropped his head, letting out a low groan in response, his hair shifting with the movement and almost overcasting his eyes. They were hard to meet now as the dim light of the room shone against the lenses of his glasses, but you just knew he was looking at you from over the rims. You were his little test subject, being looked at through a microscope. His cock was long and thick, hard and leaking pre-cum which resulted in a nice smear against the lower half of his abdomen. Something about him… It’s so hard not to admire. His cock rose from a nest of soft blonde curls, trimmed neatly and almost the same golden color as the hair on his head. It arched to the right slightly, in a way that made it seem like the pinnacle of masculinity but also spoke of a quiet vulnerability as he shifted under your hungry eyes. He was never comfortable being naked, but then again who was? You were looking at him, and he was very, very naked. Reaching out, you lightly let your fingers trace one of the veins along the underside of him and felt the deep shudder leave his body against your legs. The skin is velvety smooth under your fingertips, a sharp contrast to how hot and heavy it was in your palm when you finally dove in enough to grasp him.

Ryland winced again, breathing in through his teeth. “Are you okay…?” The blonde nodded feebly, tilting his head back as your wrist moved up his length, smearing pre-cum against your fingers and then back down to the base where you rested, just enough to pull his cock away from his body, at attention. “Uh… I might… c…” Words were nowhere to be found, but Ryland managed a string of somewhat audible sounds, “Cum really fast, I’m s-sorry.” You bit your bottom lip, feeling the pink in your face deepen at that confession, leaning your head down so you could start. “That’s not a problem, baby. Cum when you need to.” 

Your hot breath against his shaft was enough to make him unravel, but with sheer force of will, and a handful of your hair in his hands, Ryland managed to get you down enough for your mouth to take him, tongue flattening against the underside of his shaft, only able to take part of him and what you weren’t able to suck was being taken care of by the hand around his base in a churning motion that was wounding up the tight feeling deep in his navel. It’s a salty taste that you knew was uniquely Ryland and that made it all the more enjoyable as you moaned against him, letting your mouth work against the hot and heavy organ. His grip in your hair tightened, noises from his mouth hitting your ears but they’re all nonsensical. Almost like he was rumbling scientific phrases, but these were moans, groans and low, deep resting growls from his chest as you started to bob your head. 

Slow and steady was always the way to go, a rhythm picking up as you braced your free hand against his thigh to keep Ryland from overconsuming into your mouth. You loved the enthusiasm, but there was a time and place for gagging and this was not it. Yet.

You start to move, your head bobbing in a languid, steady motion. He wasn’t guiding with the way he was holding your hair, which he very well could have done if he chose to, but he was holding on for what seemed like dear life as he lifted his hips in a sharp motion, causing the one thing you were avoiding. 

You gagged, hand around his base slipping to brace against his other thigh as you eyes rolled back and squeezed. If you were going to end with face fucking, he may as well go all in, your little pervert brain said as Ryland brought his hips up again in a desperate plea, coupled with a tiny whimper and, “Oh god… God, I’m… Fu…” You re-opened your eyelids and looked at him through your lashes. Ryland’s head was thrown back against the broken bed, his neck on full display and muscles there twitching with the sounds coming out of him. His beautiful blue eyes were squeezed shut. The very sight of him, you moaned against him again as you drew your head back down, this time to take as much as you possible could, so undone and so completely lost in the moment as he relinquished what little control he liked to keep in his life, what little variables made sense, it was so intoxicating. 

"God," He gasped, feeling his cock hit the back of your throat. "That's… oh, wow… Ohhh…. Mother fluffer.” You had to smile at that around his length. Even in the fits of passion his teacher's brain still worked itself to the surface. The pace increased, Ryland helping out where he could as he rose his hips in motion with your bobbing. You could feel him getting close, his breathing was coming out in ragged little gasps, so desperate and so cute… He was pleading with his entire body and you wanted more.

Your name fell from his mouth, almost with a slew of profanity but Ryland bit down on his bottom lip as he declared confidently, "I'm… I'm close… sweetheart, I-I’m so close.” His voice is tight around the affectionate pet name he’d given you when you first started dating. Practicality often won out and you didn't hear it from him often so to get it now? That was all the motivation you needed. You doubled down, suctioning your mouth around his cock and bringing your lips up and down in a rougher, more messy motion as the grip in your hair became almost borderline painful, his fingers tugging at your skull like it was the last lifeline he had on Earth. And with a hoarse cry, his head almost slamming against the bedframe behind, he was letting go straight into your mouth and down your throat, his body arching and contorting in ways that you had only read about in books. 

You continued though, sucking gently, milking him through the intensity of his orgasm until he was completely spent and his cock fell a bit limp in your mouth. With hard breaths that seemed almost painful for him, Ryland collapsed back against the broken bed, ignoring the precariousness of the broken wood shards that had to be there, his entire body trembling. 

As carefully as you could, you popped your mouth off him with a very satisfied grin, tasting the lingering of his cum on your lips as you licked them. Soft kisses were pressed against his hip before you shuffled upwards to lie beside him on the pile of blankets.

Not as urgently, but as needily as before, Ryland pulled you into his arm, allowing you full access to curl against him and rest your head against his chest. His heart is hammering up a storm against your ear which tugs another grin of satisfaction to your face.

“That uh…” His throat was dry, mouth pressing together and forcing a swallow of saliva down in order to get his voice to work properly, “That exceeded any expectations I had sending you that text earlier.”

“In a good way?” You smiled, kissing his still clothed pectoral and lifting a hand to rest on his abdomen. Due to sheer overstimulation, Ryland seemed to back away at that but it was just the muscles there contracting and relaxing to your heated fingertips.

"The best way." Your handsome boyfriend said, pressing a kiss to the top of your head as you carefully drew a circle around his taut belly button. "I… think we still have some more data to collect, though… It’s incredibly skewed right now, being uh…” 

He shifted under you, hoping you’d move. You did, just barely so you could look up at him with a smile playing along your lips at the sudden shyness as if you did not just have the entirety of his cock in your mouth a few minutes ago. 

“It’s incredibly male dominated. I think we need some… Female feedback.”

The dirty talk Ryland gave you took a second to sink into your otherwise hazy mind, but once it did you could feel the heat of the entire evening against your ribcage and trickling down to rest rather uneasily between your legs. You had been so hyper focused on pleasing him that the thought of Ryland turning the tables only occurred when he brought it up. In a cute scientific way, of course. He pulls you down, pressing a large hand to the back of your head and the kiss that follows was nothing like before. This one is hungry. Ryland is showing you that he intends to eat you alive if that’s what it took, the tiny dam of resistance breaking down. Ryland was no longer thinking, he was acting on pure instinct to drive home your own pleasure. He broke the kiss just long enough to tug his shirt over his head, musing his hair and skewing his glasses along the way and tossed it aside without a second thought.

The very sight of him made you want to moan out of ecstasy, your hands finally able to explore all of the lean muscle you knew he possessed from biking around the Bay area, coupled with the paler skin of his torso being flushed with desire and really accentuating the small freckles and beauty spots that lined his body. Your breath caught in your throat. Within a second of losing the last bit of security he had from your prying eyes, he was on you again, mouth tangling yours heatedly, body lifting and pressing against you. 

There was nowhere for you to go, letting him grasp at your shoulders so that every inch of him was melting against yours. You could feel the frantic nature of his heartbeat under your fingertips as you pressed them against his pecs, the heat radiating and burning at your skin in response.

In typical Ryland Grace fashion, his hands are clumsy but eager as they fumble with the hem of your shirt as he rolls it up against your back. You did what you could in your position and lifted your arms to help, and with one sweep, your shirt was off and tossed to the side to join his own. 

Immediately, you can see the sheen of his glasses as attention dropped to the expected, but still incredibly sexy, black lace bra that cupped your breasts in just the right way. It didn't matter how many times he saw it, Ryland still looked at you like you were the shiny piece of lab equipment he couldn’t wait to use. And he was going to use it with intention. A kiss, sloppy as it may be and full of saliva, was placed on your collarbone, followed by another as Ryland drew them further down. You tucked your fingers into his hair, your turn to keep him in place as the kisses became open mouthed, a trail of slick wetness following where he kissed as he moved along the rim of lace. His beard got caught here and there, but that was all the more thrilling as a final and teeth-ridden kiss was placed between them, earning the scientist a delicious arch of your back in his large hands, your fingers tightening their grip in his hair.  It takes him an honest-to-God second to fumble with the clasp of the bra. He could figure out complicated mathematical equations and complex science, but could not for the life of him remember how the darn thing clasped on.

You could feel his fingers against your skin, drifting in and out and almost teasing you of what was to come before the shaky digits finally accomplished their task! A mixture of nerves and adrenaline take over as he stares down at your bare breasts, your arm flinging the bra off to the side carelessly.

“Ry…” You whispered to him, letting your fingers tuck that much deeper into the recesses of his thick blonde hair. 

And Madame Curie, that is all it takes. 

Face first like any scientist would with a new study, Ryland dipped his head and took your right nipple into his mouth. The sensation is electric and automatic, moving down your spine and almost tingling your feet as you let out a little gasp, furling and unfurling the hand in his hair as means of motivation. 

He's not gentle, not at first but that was usually the case as Ryland needed time to… Warm up and remember what his body was capable of beyond just his brilliant mind. He goes about it in a very experimental way, letting his tongue and teeth play along the sensitive body part in a way that keeps you gasping for more, clasping your legs around his waist as you finally make your way to properly straddle him.

Experiment turns to exploration in a heartbeat as his other hand comes up to cup the other breast, thumb brushing over the peak rhythmically at first but that’s tossed to the wind and Ryland finds himself squeezing and pinching your nipple at random just to get you to react unexpectedly. And every time he does, he’s earned with your hips twitching towards him and rewarding his semi-hard cock with friction, a small gasp of appreciation leaving his lips each time. His free hand snakes its way down your side, erupting the bare skin in a slew of goosebumps as you knew where he was going the second he trailed down south. The waistband of your leggings was given very little attention other than Ryland’s slender fingers hooking into them, his darkened blue eye asking you the silent question that didn't even need an answer at this point. You lifted your hips as best you could, and with a few fumbling limbs due to your positioning, he made remarkably quick work of getting both them and your panties off. 

Out of a need for validation, Ryland does check that they match your bra and when he notices he does, a tiny bit of pride swells in his chest. He knew you well enough to guess that idiosyncrasy. There was something stupidly intimate about that. And there was something even more intimate about the way that he let his gaze fall upon you, bare and indulgent just for his liking. 

In the faint light of the room, Ryland was documenting every fall and rise of your heavy breathing, your swollen lips so close to his own, your perked breasts begging for more attention from him and the way that your legs fell open for him in such an invitation that it would be rude of him to deny. Unfortunately, due to you straddling him, he was unable to really see, to admire your pussy, but there was something innately desirable about the idea of his hand between your legs now and letting you ride him until you came all over, down his wrist. 

With incredibly accurate eye contact, despite his glasses sitting so close to the tip of his nose, his hot mouth returns to press into your breasts, playing around with the erect nipple in his mouth with the very tip of his tongue. Very gently, and still causing you to stiffen above him, Ryland drew a hand to your inner thigh, letting feathery kisses of assurance rest in his touch as he soothed the overwhelmed skin below. 

The dual assault on your senses is overwhelming. The sloppy, wet, sucking pull of his mouth on your nipple and the slow, torturous drag of his fingers send eradicated shivers through your entire body like a jolt of electricity. That’s when it happens. Ryland sends his fingers straight against your slick folds, causing an almost silent gasp of intensity to come from your mouth, back arching against nothing but air and as a result, your breast was pushed further into his expectant mouth. “Ryland!”

Even with the yummy shout of his name into the air, the scientist doesn’t stop the enjoyment he sought from your chest, his tongue swirling around your peaked nipple as his fingers explore you with a curious, almost reverent touch between your legs. “Ryland, Ryland…” 

You were leaning so heavily against him that it would be a surprise if the rest of the bed didn't bust from the sheer power you were putting behind your grinding motion against his open hand. More tediously, Ryland slid a finger through your wetness, gathering what he was able along his fingers and the pure heat on his hand was enough to cause him to shudder against you despite the intense fever in the room. It felt like he was… Learning your body. Mapping what responses he was getting with a scientist’s keen eye and a lover’s passion. 

Ryland finds your clit without reserve, the small sensitive bundle of nerves that sent shakes of voltage up and down your spine, straight back to the spot where he was pressing his finger to. It was a current and repeated over and over again as he began circling it languidly, head pressing against your chest so he could look up at you and take in the reactions of your face. Your eyes were squeezed shut as if that was going to help you with the building pressure between your legs, your face was completely flushed, small beads of shiny sweat against your forehead and causing stray hairs to stick to your skin. The next time that Ryland swirls his fingers, he brings your nipple back into his mouth and lets his teeth settle against it and scrapes in a perfectly timed action.

The combined sensation is absolutely lethal. A loud, breathy moan escapes your lips, and your hips rock up to meet his hand, your meager offerings at a time like this to help out. Ryland, being as observant as he is, takes the encouragement from your biological and instinctual reactions to him as a sexual partner and his… skills causing a shift in his movements to become more confident.

"That's it," He murmurs against your skin, drooling a bit against it, voice nothing more than a raspy whisper that vibrates through your chest straight to your heart. "Just like that. You're so… responsive."

Ryland swallowed hard, curling his fingers against your clit for just a split second as if he was contemplating before he slid a finger inside you. It was sharp and sudden - causing you to cry out at the fullness just one of his long fingers gave, yanking at his blonde locks still tangled deeply in your fingers.

“Oh, god, babe.”

He’s almost meticulous, his finger exploring your walls, but then he curls it, finding that spot deep inside you that makes you see stars and hold onto him that much tighter, your legs attempting to clamp shut to aid in the overstimulation but his hand was preventing you from doing just that. 

"Good girl." Ryland praised gently, remembering the one other time he said that and the inert reaction he got. Releasing your nipple with a soft pop, a slow, triumphant smile spread across his face as you babbled and threw your head into his neck, hot breath pounding against his jugular. 

"Did… did I find it? Think I did…” Ryland tried his hand again at a bit of dirty talk, enjoying the feeling of your mouth against his skin as you began kissing his neck to keep yourself from going into overdrive, bucking your hips straight into his finger with a stagnant moan. “Use your big girl words, sweetheart.”

God, he was using teacher lingo, your mind short-circuited at that as another moan left you when he curled his finger deep inside of you. He was filling you in a way that has you teetering on the edge of that sweet crest. There’s a moment in time where Ryland, as confident as he wanted to be, went about setting a rather clumsy rhythm. 

He was not musically inclined, urging his hand to go in some awkward off-beat motion but that didn't matter the second a second finger entered you, stretching you out for what was to come. The pumping of his fingers became erratic, hard and sweet as they caressed your walls, thumb taking care against your clit with intense pressure and attention. 

The pleasure in you, resting so uneasily in the pit of your navel tightened to an almost painful degree, legs shaking against Ryland’s hand and your body arching again against him. He leered up at you, almost analytically as he was yearning to see when that edge would be crossed so he could remember it for another time. His thumb pressed down harder against your clit, fingers curling to find that spot just one more time.

“Rylandddd….”

Ryland knew what he had to do then, a sense of unfamiliarity in his chest as you rode against his hand. His voice came out thick with desire and uncertainty as the words came from his mouth. “I want to feel you cum against my fingers, baby.”

The words are the straw on the camel's back. The tightening inside of you snaps like an overwrought rubber band and your orgasm crashes over you in a blinding, all-consuming wave. You’re definitely crying out Ryland’s name, you can almost feel your lips making the motions but you can barely hear let alone care to pay enough attention. 

Your body arches against his chest as wave after wave of pleasure washes over you, your throat hoarse and dry in desperation. But, Ryland doesn't stop. His long fingers continue to pump into you, his thumb circling your clit to keep you from coming to shock at the loss of affection if he pulled away too quickly. And he was having quite the time watching your face contort and squeeze, Ryland feeling his cock harden at the pure driven instinct that you had when you said his name, constricting and releasing his fingers in a pulsating manner as you rode out your orgasm as best you could with hard and raggaded breath, face pressed so hard into his neck that it felt like he was a mask. 

“Ry…” You groaned and drew your teeth into his shoulder softly, but enough for him to gasp. 

Slowly, Ryland’s fingers left your body. Unabashedly, his gaze is locked on your face, a look of utter awe and satisfaction on his. You were beyond the joys of sharing bodily fluids as he brought his glistening fingers to his lips, eyes never leaving yours as he dipped them into his mouth and licked them clean. A jolt hit you at that, eyes dilated beyond belief. A low and guttural groan rumbles from your boyfriend’s broad chest, a sound of pure and primal satisfaction.

“Any… Notes on the female experience?” 

Ryland teased and drew you in for a lazy kiss. You barely responded, leaning on the man to bring you to him, the taste of yourself lingering on his mouth and around his beard. You smile against his mouth weakly, laughing slightly.

Your limbs feel like jelly as the kiss is drawn out and you press your forehead tenderly against his shoulder and give him the smallest of kisses against his sweaty and salty skin. And yet, in the quiet room, with the linger scent of foreplay and orgasms still thrumming through both of your bodies, you knew this was only the beginning.

"I need to fuck you." Ryland is hard again. The brashness of the words leaves you reeling even more as you pull your head back enough to look at his face. The usually reserved scientist with a clean mouth’s face was flushed, his eyes dark with a desperate need. "Okay, I need… I need to…" Before you can even say anything, it was Ryland’s turn to move too fast, trying to reach for his bedside table that had fortunately been unscathed in the evening's events. But, the movement is awkward in the cramped space and he almost elbows you in the head.

"Woah there." You giggle, still trying to come down from your high and hearing him speak a word of profanity, lifting your hips just enough to give him room to coordinate movements.

"Sorry, sorry…" 

Ryland mumbled cutely, hand fumbling with the drawer. He pulls it open so hard it comes off its track, clattering to the floor with a loud bang. A cascade of items spills out. You watch with slight amusement and glance at the goods. A pen, a stray sock, a half-eaten bag of chips, and a small, square foil packet. Your eyebrows rose at that. So he did keep them in his side table, there was something adorable at that as you often supplied the condoms thus far. Ryland was frozen under you as if he did not just admit his darkest desire in the crudest way possible. He stared at the mess on the floor, then trailed his eyes to the condom lying rather innocently on the worn rug. If he was not already red from excursion, he was sure this would have done it. “That uh…” He muttered in scientific despair, “That was not the intended… action…” You can’t help it as a laugh bursts out from your mouth. Not in a mean way, but in a warm and genuine way like he had just told you one of his punny science jokes, and while you didn't understand it at first, it finally became clear with this cute explanation that often followed. Ryland could feel the heat against his cheeks deepen as a small smile tugged at his lips. You shift on his lap, the movement making Ryland groan softly and causing you to chomp down on your bottom lip as your pussy brushed against his hardened cock. Gotta give it to him, due to years of being alone his refractory period was one for the ages and it left you satiated. The thought alone of having his shaft inside of you sends a fresh wave of arousal to your core.

"I uhm… Hm… think we've moved well past 'intended actions,' Ryland."

Your words came out in a murmur, a few kisses being spread against his lips, from the corner to corner and ending with a feathery touch right at the center. Ryland let out a shaky breath at that, grasping at your hips and swinging you towards him, unashamed at his brain chemistry telling him that he needed you more than the O2 in the air. “But the… protocol… for safety…”

"Forget the condom." You whisper against his lips, planting another kiss slowly. "I'm on birth control." Ryland froze at that, his entire body almost going rigid beneath you like you had just kicked a puppy. His hands on your hips tighten to the point where you feel like he’s going to leave bruises on the bone, eyes wide with surprise at that admission. I mean, he shouldn’t have been surprised. Most women in your age bracket were on some form of birth control, but he was trying to come to terms with well… Layman terms here, Ryland. He thought to himself and let his eyes lock with yours. 

You wanted him to fuck you raw. 

“You… you are?" Somehow and some way, the dirty blonde got that out of his pink lips, more or less squeaking it. “Mhm…” You muse for him, rocking your hips in his hand and against his hard cock in a slow, deliberate motion. Ryland shuddered in response, his head falling back again against the broken bed frame. “And… I’ve only ever been with you so, STD’s, STI’s and such are… Not a problem. I’m clean.” “Oh my god.” He almost choked that out, suffocating on saliva that built up in his throat. His voice felt so strained with sudden emotion that it was frightening. It was a mix of… Relief? Yeah… Desire, sure but… A closeness he’d not felt with another person in quite a long time. He needed to say something to not ruin the moment!!

“Oh yeah, me too… Clean as a whistle, I am. For sure.”

Good job, Ryland.

You’re staring at him with wide eyes, waiting for an answer.

"Oh god, really? You mean… we can…?" He sputtered. You nodded shyly this time, bracing a hand on his chest and lifting yourself up enough to get into a more comfortable position. Ryland realized right away what this was - it being one of his favorite positions and helped you out as best he could. With your other hand, you reached down between your bodies and gripped his hot, bare cock. 

There was something tangled there, like a moan and a whimper that came from Ryland’s mouth, but whatever it was stirred more in you and you wanted him in you with urgency. His eyes rolled back as you smeared pre-cum against the tip, as if you needed the lubrication. You were wet as could be, it was just a force of habit.

"Are you sure?" Ryland asked one last time, voice barely above a whisper and full of fragile hope.

“I’ve never been so sure of something in my life.” 

There was something unspoken in your expression as you looked down at him, sliding the head of his cock to your entrance. The blunt head nudged you delicately, pressure building as you took it upon yourself to lock eyes with him, a very obvious silence promise passing in that moment.  

Ryland’s mouth falls open as if to say something in response, but there’s nothing but dry words as you sink down on him. The first sensation of penetration is staggering on both fronts. Ryland releases a sharp gasp from the back of his throat and you’re left with a low groan from the same area as you head tilted back at the sensation of being filled to the brim. 

There was no buffer, no dulling of sensation. Just… Ryland. Hot and thick under you, filling you inch by overwhelming inch as you sink down slowly, giving time for both of you to adjust as it appears like Ryland’s soul has left his body, eyes squeezed so tightly behind his lenses that you could have sworn there was condensation building on them. The friction itself is a perfect burn to your senses. All of him, you take all of him without hesitation, his cock hitting spots you didn't even know existed as your hips came flush against his. Everything stopped for a second. Your eyes locked, wide and shocked, mirroring intimate emotion Ryland never thought he’d experience, something you had only heard other people talk about. You were both adjusting to the raw and unfiltered reality you found yourselves in.

"God," The scientist breathed out hard, his voice trembling right around the edges. " "God, you feel… this is… I can't…" 

You can only nod in agreement, your throat too tight to speak. Before any digression or before rational thought came back, you began moving. Rising your hips slowly until just the head of his cock was still in you before sliding back down in one long, smooth slide. Ryland jerked at that, turning the smoothness into a bit of a bumpier ride as you tried to set a pace, but that was okay. Every stroke and movement was perfect and needed as you rode against him. The rims of his glasses shone as Ryland dropped his eyes to the point where your bodies joined, watching his pretty cock disappear into you with a hitch in his breathing before his gaze drifted to your face, watching with intent the way that your eyes fluttered closed at the sensation, the way your lips parted into a moan. Something snapped in his mind. Ryland wasn’t being fucked. You were memorizing him like he memorized you.

He doesn’t know where to put his hands, they’re still hovering by your hips and you take it upon yourself and the building pleasure between your bodies to help out a bit. You grasped them tightly, laying your hands on top of his much larger ones and splayed them against your skin. Ryland watched it with awe.

You hold him to your skin, sliding his touch with such command up your sides to your breasts where you urged him… No, no… You were begging him to play with you. Who was he to complain? He feels your fingers tangle with his and within moments, you both groping at your breasts aggressively as your hips fall into line.

You set the rhythm. From this angle, it’s obvious that you’re in control, and you were enjoying Ryland’s face contorting with pleasure as you took him deeper with each wild roll of your hips. Without warning, his hands drop from yours and are gripping at your thighs, so hard that his knuckles are nearly turning white. He was close, but hey… So were you, that tightening sensation beating a drum in the inner most part of your navel. 

You decide then to change things up again. Whatever pace you had set, quickened and left the poor teacher under you writhing to keep up, moaning and throwing his head back as your name fell from his lips like a chant. You leaned forward, pressing your chest to his face as he instinctively let his mouth fall along the ridge of one of your breasts, perky again from his hot breath against your skin.  

You changed the angle, and Ryland was left crying out as you took him deeper than you had before, managing at the same time to hit that spongy spot inside of you that caused a blister of stars to sprinkle behind your eyelids. Heatedly, you pressed your hands flat on his chest for leverage as you rode him harder. Faster. The messy and wet sounds of bodies connecting filled the room along with the wild and loud moans from Ryland, and the equally roaring groans and tangles of his name from your lips. 

"Look at me, baby…" 

Ryland commanded, his voice rough and strained from extreme exertion and arousal. Something about the way he looked at you told you that he was saying ‘my turn’ as he sat up, wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you flush against his chest. His other hand cupped the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair and giving a small yank of appreciation that sent a surge of pleasurable pain down your vertebrate as you moaned out his name again, forcing your eyes open to do as you were instructed. You looked at him, tears forming at the edges of your eyes. 

“Ryland! G..God, I’m so close… Y-... Pl… Make me c-cum…” Whatever little control Ryland had shattered into a million tiny pieces. Without restraint, he surged his hips up to meet you half way and to jolt you into overdrive. His movements were wild and uncontrolled, rapid and borderline aggressive but it’s what you wanted. God, you just wanted him to destroy you. He was driving into you with all of the intent his little biological brain told him to do.

The loss of the condom just made it more vapid. He wanted to cum inside of you, not out of ease or convince but because something in his ridiculously selfish brain liked the idea of his cum inside of you. Maybe he’d even be lucky in the future and you’d really let him breed you, with the further intent of having a mix of his DNA and yours. He liked that, probably a bit too much as his hips were snapping against yours he felt like you were going to fall into two pieces as a result.

These actions alone are your undoing. Your eyes squeeze shut and the devastating and adoring love you felt in the moment pushed you right over that edge into another orgasm. You clenched Ryland’s cock tightly, the muscles spasming and stirring him to moan into your ear as you dropped your forehead against his shoulder once again. This was more intense than earlier, it was blinding and throbbing. Your back arched and a hoarse cry tore from your throat, violent and needy. 

"Fuck, fuck..." Ryland groaned, capturing your mouth in one more heated kiss, his rhythm faltering as he buried his face in your neck. With a final, deep thrust upwards, he followed you over the edge, spilling into you with a series of shuddering, guttural moans as you grasped at the back of his head to keep him as steady as you could. You could feel the pulse of him as he spilled into you, hot and heady, sticky and salty. 

You collapse onto him, your body boneless but still trembling violently. There was no change for ​​the elusive refractory from Ryland as he held you tightly against him, his face so viciously buried in your hair. He didn't want to let you go, feeling you lax against him with hard breathing that was keeping him grounded to the Earth. He holds you tight, his face buried in your hair, his arms wrapped around you like he never wants to let you go. You're both a tangled, sweaty mess, inhaling and exhaling heavily in the aftermath. 

The room is quiet, save for the pounding of your hearts, slowly syncing into a single, steady rhythm. A few minutes had to pass as the silence drifted between the two of you, easy and smooth, the gasps for air calming down into smaller more manageable breaths that now lingered the scent of sex bliss into your nostrils. 

Ryland slowly pressed a kiss to your shoulder and you felt a smile against your skin, "So… I think my initial hypothesis about the spatial limitations was… incorrect."

You laughed. A soft and content sound as you felt a sudden onslaught of sleepiness hit you . "You think?"

"Yeah," Ryland smiled, kissing your forehead. "I think the limited space is… an optimal variable."

You smiled in return, snuggling in a bit closer. "I agree."

The small apartment, the questionable couch, the broken bed—it's all perfect. Because it's his. And now, it's yours too.

Taglist: @strigiform-titan @whats-my-hyperfixation @negativefoursanity @blaze-the-world @box-of-sharpies @everythingismadeofchaos @gnomebutch @t0nystank @greenlalianime @my-cat-can-slay-dragons @gardenavenve @whore-msc @goslingcore @rivercattail @ambertiger5 @starsbelongtotheworld @emmyishere77 @wayward-avenging @rocktthehouse @unabashednightmarepizza @lowbudgetdoll @lastminutescience @anixszci @lov3lanuage @newagecassandra @allthelittlethingsssss @sl13-ce @nicassie @emblunt46 @cemeterystardust @ckq-fics @writingforrhys @brunomarzbootylicker @icomewithpeace @theemeraldcorporalnik @kusogeki

[rockyhatemark]

I JUST GOT BACK FROM MY 12 HOUR SHIFT TO THE GREATEST GIFT! I’m so glad you get me with his hands, what you wrote is EXACTLY how I pictured them and their hand language. I’m literally giggling and kicking my feet, I will be rereading that religiously yip yip yip. (I also would love to hear your nsfw thoughts, statement.)

Queen, genuinely thank you so much it made my day. Still giggling and kicking my feet thinking about it LOL

- your eggy anon 🥚

EGG I’M SO GLAD YOU ENJOYED! ask and you shall receive baby, NSFW rygos hand headcanon’s coming right up! uh I’m writing these way past my bedtime so if this whole post is incoherent, that would be why (part 2 to this post for those who may have missed it!)

RYLAND’s hands are long. He can reach and massage parts of you that you can’t reach on your own. He’s able to curl his fingers and press against your walls in such a way that you swear he’s slowly rearranging your guts to mold perfectly to his digits. If you plead enough, he’ll even stick those fingers in your mouth, pressing firmly on your tongue to make you drool. His precise control over his hands means he’s methodical in the bedroom. He knows just where to touch you, when to touch you and how to touch you so you’re able to get the most out of your time with him. With patience and practice, he knows your body better than his own. Basically, Ryland can play you like a fiddle. One specific thing he does that drives you crazy is use those long fingers of his to push the extra droplets of cum that drip out of you back into your heat, coaxing it deeper where it’ll stay. He’s always mesmerized when he does it and frankly, you enjoy it too much to bother asking why

HOLLAND’s hands like to wander and he’s not ashamed to hide it. Keep this man on a tight leash when you’re out because he can and will touch you in ways most would find insanely inappropriate for the public eye. You’re at a restaurant sitting side-by-side at a table that has a long tablecloth? His hand is already on your knee and winding between your thighs within minutes of ordering your drinks, right in front of your waiter. Walking down the street? His hand is in your back pocket. Driving him to meet one of his clients? He’s leaning over the center console to unbutton your pants/pull your skirt up or do whatever it takes to reach what’s underneath. His hands are always moving when you’re alone too- sliding under your shirt when you’re trying to brush your teeth or tugging your towel loose when you’ve just stepped out of the shower. You occasionally get your revenge by pinning his hands above his head when you ride him to oblivion, not letting him touch you like he wants as punishment

LARS’ hands are huge. He’s hesitant to really use his hands to their full potential at first; for whatever reason, he’s terrified he might hurt you. Only after you’re able to reassure Lars that he couldn’t hurt a fly, much less hurt you, then he gets a little bolder. His hands dwarf every part of you he touches. Palming your chest, cupping your cheek, splaying between your legs all has you weak at how much surface area his hands cover. The aching stretch that his fingers provide have your eyes rolling back into your skull. It’s only a matter of time before Lars realizes just how easy it is to make you squirm and becomes confident enough to use that to his advantage. He’ll even hold a palm to your throat once he’s comfortable, not squeezing hard enough to cut off your air but just enough so he can feel your neck bob under his hand.

COLT’s hands are rough. As mentioned before, his hands are a little worse for wear but it only makes things all the more enjoyable for you. The scrape of his callouses against your flesh- when he trails his fingers down your sides, smooths his thumbs over your nipples or slipping his middle finger into your heat- the scuffs are enough to have your back arching off the bed. He’s teasing both in and out of the bedroom. Colt’s hands will edge you until you’re seeing white before he’ll pull away, just to see you beg for more. Once, he had you straddling his hips and riding his hand to pleasure yourself, barely able to find relief while being impaled on only one of his fingers, so worked up your eyes were lined with tears. He was so turned on by the sight that he came untouched and shot ropes of cum all over himself.

might try to watch drive tomorrow 🫪 gotta see what this driver guy is all about

[rockyhatemark]

Hi! I am absolutely giddy after reading your Holland March/neighbor headcanons! They’re both adorable and that part 2 with him going to her house drunk was really so sweet.

Would you be up to maybe a 3rd part where they finally go on a date? :)

You write beautifully and I love getting to read your ideas! Wishing you a wonderful day!

thank you so much! neighbor!holland is my heroin and you absolutely can have a part 3 (and 4 and 5 and 6…)! (Part 1) (Part 2)

I think your first real date with Holland is a secret. 

Not a secret per se to Holly, or Healy or your circle of friends.

But a secret to Holland.

You’ve been dying for your neighbor to work up the courage to ask you out. You thought your feelings were pretty clear (you wouldn’t sleep on your couch with just anyone) but apparently not clear enough to him. 

You worried for a little while that he was hesitant to pursue you because he held some sort of guilt for wanting to date another person outside of his late wife- which you fully respected. 

It was actually Holly that gave you the final shove you needed. She told you one Thursday that she was going out of town with a friend’s family for the weekend meaning her dad had nothing to do and the house would be empty.

“He’s been trying to figure out, statistically, what the perfect date is. He even had me to go the library to find books about it. You should just ask him out and save him the trouble because I think it’s driving him crazy.”

So you did. But in a way that wouldn’t label your outing as a date.

You had a sneaking suspicion that if Holland knew it was a date, he’d panic and act weird or try overly hard to seduce you. You didn’t need that, you just needed him as he was.

So Friday morning when you went out to get your mail and Holland just so happened to also be getting his mail at the same time, you asked him if he would take you into town later that evening for groceries.

“My car won’t start and I’m almost out of milk.”

“Oh! Yeah! Sure. Absolutely. Definitely. I’m not busy later so I can take you.” Queue a casual shrug. “Anyway, what’s wrong with your car?”

“Not sure.”

“I can take a look-“

“That’s ok! I’ll worry about it tomorrow.”

Holland follows behind you in the supermarket with the cart, leaning his forearms on the handle and donning a cheesy smile. You’re both laughing and having a great time while you gather ingredients for dinner. Holland doesn’t think twice about what you’re putting in the cart, just ogling at you when your back is turned.

When you ask him for help cooking dinner, he says he’s the worst person to ask but you wave him off and usher him inside. The two of you have a blast and a half, flitting around the kitchen together (the asparagus only gets slightly charred when Holland neglects his only job duty in favor of watching your shirt ride up when you reach for something) and you spend the next several hours talking.

A couple of glasses of wine are consumed and the two of you sit way closer than ‘friends’ should on the couch, but nothing happens beyond that. You walk him to his door with a laugh once your night winds down.

“Thanks for the date, Holland! I look forward to the next one.”

Holland looks like he’s trying to solve the world's hardest math problem, his wine muddled brain not helping him in the slightest. “Date?”

You kiss his cheek and hurry home before your stomach explodes with butterflies.

Holland is on your doorstep the next morning with flowers and a carton of eggs. “I was thinking we have that second date today over breakfast?”

[rockyhatemark]

hello ! first off how are you!!! i hope you're having a lovely day :0 secondly, i cant stop thinking about your holland march and neighbor!reader post it makes me giggle so much im spinning around my bedroom in hysterics

i was wondering if you have any more thoughts on the dynamic ie. holland slowly trying to weave his way into his neighbors life ! i like thinking about him visiting sometimes trying to be very impressive, and every time he comes back home, holly gives him a reality check, saying that returning tupperware does not equal having game. holland insists he has this in the bag though (he doesnt). hes so pathetic and hot im crying 😭😭

The image of Holland returning Tupperware but spending WAY too much time fidgeting on your porch before he knocks is KILLING ME he's definitely looking at his reflection in the window next to your door to make sure his hair and mustache look pristine and his tie is straight. Then you answer the door and he's stuttering and forgetting what he came over for AHHH I need him. do i have more neighbor!holland ideas? do i have more neighbor!holland ideas? oh you bet i do (part 1)

Holland makes a point to never let you see him as shabby looking as he did the day you first met. If he’s not in a suit for work, he’s at least wearing nicer pants and a loose button up. He was gonna make sure that if you do ever see him in his boxers again, it’s because you’re in his bedroom (or he’s in yours) and he’s pulling you under the covers.

He tries to play it cool for the first couple of weeks after you move in, wanting to make sure you’ve settled and making sure he doesn't come on too strong. After bringing you flowers that first day (your first bouquet of many), poor Holly becomes the March household’s head baker. Holland can’t bake worth shit, but Holly can. So he’s full of bribes and promises of books and things in return for a dozen cookies or a plate of brownies to bring to his new neighbor. Holly does it, only because watching her dad fumble the beauty next door makes her laugh (and because he genuinely seems interested in someone for the first time since her mom died).

You’re all smiles when he shows up with baked goods, inviting him in with a wave. Holland wants to fall to his knees.

The first time he had come over with cookies, Holland soaked in every bit of information he could about you from what he could see in your house.

He learned small things, like your hobbies and what he could guess was your favorite color. But the main thing he noticed was the lack of things that pointed to you having a partner. There weren’t enough belongings for two people, unless you’re with someone who’s an extreme minimalist.

Holland couldn’t have been happier. 

You were so nice. So warm and welcoming. Holland was immediately enamored. 

He would go over every day if he could, but he held himself back. He allowed himself one visit a week, sometimes two (or three). Any time you came to his house didn’t count towards the total. 

He offers to mow your lawn (he rarely ever mows his own), he’ll bring your newspaper to your doorstep if he sees it in your driveway, he’ll offer you rides into town when because he just so happens to be heading into town at the same time as you.

He’s so proud of himself, believing with his entire being that he’s oozing with charm.

Holly disagrees. 

She says no man who spends that much time staring out of the kitchen window just on the off chance he’ll be able to catch a glimpse of his neighbor has any game. He had about as much charm as a lovesick puppy in her eyes.

As much as you love Holly, you would have to disagree with her opinion.

Holland’s attempts to woo you, as obvious and silly as they may be, were working.

From the very first time you saw him- in his bright yellow boxers and extreme bedhead, watering flowerbeds that honestly looked like they had more weeds than flowers- you liked him. He was a little goofy and acted much more confident than you believed he really was, but you liked it. 

You looked forward to his visits and found excuses to visit him just as often as he found excuses to visit you. 

Once, Holland comes to your house absolutely plastered. He’d meant to go to his own home after a night of drinking but he’d been over so often lately, his drunken mind must’ve been on autopilot. It’s 3 am and you answer the door with a steak knife before you realize who it is. 

Drunk Holland is so happy to see you ("Heyyy! What are you doin’ in my house? Finally moving in?")

You let him in, half dragging him to your couch as he uses you as a crutch. Holland babbles to you for an hour, apparently forgetting who he’s talking to for the majority of it and telling you all about his cute neighbor who he’s falling in love with.

You listen quietly, smiling so much your mouth hurts until Holland passes out with his head tucked in your lap.

When he wakes up the next morning, Holland is convinced he finally got alcohol poisoning, kicked the bucket and by the grace of God, somehow ended up in heaven. Sprawled on the couch together, his body prone between your legs and head resting on your chest and breathing together, he had to pinch himself and pinch you to make sure he wasn't dreaming.

Part 3!

[rockyhatemark]

lol considering a neighbor!holland thing:

the first time holland sees you is the day you move in. like literally, you’re pulling up to your new home with your car stuffed full of your things.

holland is outside watering the flowerbeds with a hose, in his pajamas (white t-shirt and some brightly colored boxers), sunglasses on, whisky in hand and cigarette in mouth.

holland isn’t really interested to see who is moving in, assuming it’ll be some older couple who will eventually come knocking to complain about his self-destructive lifestyle and how he should be ashamed of himself for drinking around his daughter blah-blah-blah, all stuff he’s fully aware of and berates himself for already.

but when he sees you step out of your car- young, attractive, and just his type-he’s a little shell shocked. the hold his mouth has on his cigarette gets a little looser when you wave at him. he gives a stupid wave back and rushes inside to hide because what an awful first impression he just made- looking like he just rolled out of bed (he had but he didn’t need you knowing that).

he comes over a couple of hours later, dressed in his sexiest suit with some ‘welcome to the cul-de-sac’ flowers. he doesn’t even know if you’re single or not, nor does he care. you’re so perfect, he’s willing to take his chances

PART 2 here’s a lil thing before my long weekend starts :’) I won’t have much time to write/post so this’ll have to do for now! (sorry it’s holland again, he just has me wrapped around his stupid finger rn). I promise ryland content is next, and it’s finally the enemies 2 lovers request I got ages ago (so sorry for the wait, anon who requested it 😭 took me forever to come up with something I liked!)

[morgueix]

corrupted priest!holland march x lamb!reader

TW: religion, corruption, improper use of a confessional booth teehee

smut below cut !

Father Holland March stood in the dimly lit confessional, his black cassock clinging to his broad shoulders, the white clerical collar suddenly feeling far too tight around his throat. He’d taken his vows years ago, mostly as a joke, or a way to dodge real responsibility, but God had a sick sense of humor, because nothing tested his faith like you.

You knelt on the other side of the lattice, voice soft and trembling as you confessed your sins. Impure thoughts. Touching yourself at night. Fantasies about a man of God.

His cock twitched hard beneath his robes.

“Tell me more, my child,” he murmured, voice low and rough, that signature Holland drawl dripping with false piety. His hand pressed against the growing bulge, squeezing through the fabric. “Describe exactly what you did… how your fingers felt sliding into that tight, untouched cunt while you whispered my name.”

You whimpered.

He smiled in the dark, a wicked, hungry curve of his lips. Corruption tasted so much sweeter when they came to him already halfway gone.

“Father… I’m sorry,” you breathed.

“Don’t be,” he said, opening the confessional door and stepping into your side. The small space made it easy for him to crowd you against the wall, one large hand sliding up your thigh, pushing your skirt higher. “You’re exactly what I’ve been praying for. A pretty little lamb who needs to be ruined.”

His fingers found your soaked panties and pushed them aside, two thick digits sliding into you without warning. You gasped, gripping his cassock.

“That’s it,” he groaned, pumping slowly, curling to find that spot that made your knees buckle. “Let me corrupt you properly. I want to bend you over this kneeler and fuck the grace right out of you until you’re dripping my cum down your thighs during Sunday mass.”

He leaned in, biting your ear as he added a third finger, stretching you open.

“Say it. Tell your Father how badly you need to be defiled.”

“P-please, Father… corrupt me.”

Holland March grinned like the devil himself wearing a collar.

“Good girl.”

[gosverse]

jackson’s sister ˚⋆ฺ ♡ ⋆˚࿔ | “partner, let me upgrade you.” [long hcs]

holland march x healy!detective!reader

—strangers to coworkers to lovers

࿔ the first time holland saw you, jackson had made the mistake of introducing you too casually. like you’re not the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in his entire life. your house was the spot for your brother to relax for a bit, and you were casually walking around, perfect hair and a prettier face. looking entirely too refined to be standing in the middle of whatever chaos your brother and his partner were causing.

࿔ holland had heard jackson say something along the lines of “..my sister..” and it was like he had a full system shut down, completely stopping mid sentence. “that’s your sister?! like genetically?? biologically???” “march.” “no, jackson i’m serious, like look at her and look at you.” you’re trying not to laugh while jackson looks like he’s one more word away from homicide.

࿔ he’s attempting to recover and stands up too quickly, banging his knee against your coffee table, you laugh at his whiney voice, and he looks at you with this lovesick look on his face. jackson noticed immediately.

“no.”

“i didn’t say anything..”

“your face did!”

࿔ you spent the first week of knowing him wondering how the fuck did this man make it to his age. you’re helping them with cases because jacskon keeps dragging you along with him, paperwork, phone calls, and picking locks a little too well for someone who claims to not know much about criminal activity. and holland is unbearable about it. constantly hovering around you, offering you drinks you don’t want, dramatically acting wounded whenever you take a jab at him.

࿔ the chemistry is outrageous because you’re composed and razor-sharp while holland is… holland. drunk, chaotic, dramatic, shamelessly flirtatious. you spend half your time glaring at him while secretly trying not to laugh.

࿔ he starts showing off constantly when you’re around too. suddenly every story becomes exaggerated. every punchline gets louder. he’ll do something objectively dangerous during a case and immediately glance at you afterwards to see if you looked impressed. you usually looks horrified instead. which somehow encourages him more. jackson immediately and absolutely hates it.

“stay away from my sister.”

“i’m not going near your sister.” while holland is visibly staring at you from across the room while saying this.

࿔ you’re one of the only people who can genuinely fluster holland too. not because you flirt openly, but because you catch him off guard. you’ll straighten his tie absentmindedly mid-conversation and suddenly he forgets what year it is.

࿔ you’ll lean close to light his cigarette and holland goes completely silent for once in his life.

࿔ the best part is that you clearly like him long before you admit it.

࿔ you start lingering after work. calling him instead of jackson when there’s new information. rolling your eyes affectionately instead of genuinely.

࿔ holland notices every tiny change instantly because he’s paying an absurd amount of attention to you. one night the three of you are working late on a case and you fall asleep on the couch beside holland while reading files. he goes dead quiet immediately. just sits there staring at you with this soft bewildered expression like he cannot believe someone this lovely trusts him enough to sleep near him.

࿔ holland gets under your skin gradually, which makes you also become weirdly protective of him over time. because beneath all the sleazy charm and nonsense you realise he’s actually… kind. pathetically kind, honestly. it’s the little things you notice when he thinks nobody’s paying attention. the way he always positions himself between you and danger automatically. the way he lowers his voice when you’re tired. the way he looks at holly like she hung the moon.

࿔ you realise one night while watching him with his daughter that most of his sleazy persona is armour. performance. a distraction. underneath it is someone painfully soft. and unfortunately for you, you start finding that really attractive.

࿔ you begin looking forward to his visits without meaning to. listening for his obnoxious knocking. catching yourself smiling before you even open the door because you already knows he’ll walk in talking nonsense at full volume.

࿔ holland becomes part of you routine frighteningly quickly. coffee cups left in your sink. his jackets hanging over chairs. the sound of him arguing with jackson in the next room while you secretly try not to laugh.

࿔ you’re memorising him too: the exact tone his voice takes when he’s genuinely worried. how his hair curls slightly when it rains. the fact he gets quieter after bad cases. the way his bravado slips whenever you touch him unexpectedly. holland does get shy around you eventually. that catches you off guard most.

࿔ below all the confidence and flirting, there’s this strange almost-boyish nervousness whenever things become sincere. holland can flirt all day long, but if you compliment him genuinely? he’s finished.

࿔ one night, you’re patching up a cut on his eyebrow after a fight and he suddenly says very softly: “you always look at me like i’m better than i am.” and you answer without hesitation: “maybe you’re worse at seeing yourself than i thought.” holland genuinely doesn’t know what to do with tenderness like that.

࿔ the moment you both realise you’re truly in trouble happens late at night after a rough case. holland’s drunk, bruised, tie hanging loose, sitting at your kitchen table talking quietly for once. he’s telling some story about holly as a child, smiling softly into his whiskey glass. and suddenly you see it. the loneliness in him. not pathetic loneliness. just deep. old. the kind someone jokes through because they don’t know what else to do with it.

࿔ and your chest physically aches looking at him. because beneath all the chaos, holland wants to be loved so badly it’s almost heartbreaking. he can see you looking at him that way, and he knows you feel it too. after that, you’re both softer towards each other.

࿔ he starts drinking less around you eventually, though not intentionally at first. he just likes remembering conversations with you clearly. likes staying sharp enough to notice every little expression you make. you notice immediately of course. “you’re sober.” holland shrugs awkwardly. “trying something new. felt seasonal.”

࿔ one of your favourite things becomes watching holland attempt to act cool when he’s nervous. because he’s terrible at it. he’ll lean casually against walls and immediately lose balance.

࿔ you’re smoothing his clothes out, brushing lint off of him, brushing his messy hair, keeping ashtrays and lighters in every room for him, letting him crash at your house anytime he wants.

࿔ holland notices every single thing. he starts looking at you differently too once he realises you’re caring for him on purpose now. your chemistry gets infinitely worse you begin flirting back intentionally. leaning close while talking just to watch him lose focus. touching his arm casually and feeling him go quiet. calling him “handsome” in that dry teasing voice that makes him stare at her like he’s been shot.

࿔ at some point you catch yourself defending holland automatically whenever jackson insults him. “he’s an idiot.” “he solved the case.” “by accident.” “he still solved it! stop being mean to him!”

࿔ and jackson looks at you with the most confused expression because what the fuck do you like him too???

࿔ holland falls hardest during the quiet moments though. you asleep in the passenger seat while he drives. when you’re humming softly to old jazz records. when you’re instinctively reaching for his hand during stressful moments without even realising you’re doing it.

࿔ one night after a case goes particularly badly, holland shows up at your house bleeding slightly and pretending it’s “mostly superficial”. you clean him up in silence at the bathroom sink while he watches you with unusually soft eyes. and you realise, very suddenly, that trusting holland march feels terrifyingly easy. which is absurd. because he’s a disaster. but he’s your disaster now.

࿔ the first time you kiss him happens almost accidentally. you’re adjusting the bandage near his jaw while he talks quietly about something unimportant, and suddenly he stops mid-sentence because you’re looking at him differently. really looking at him. holland’s voice goes softer immediately. “what?” and you don’t answer. just kiss him. for once in his life holland march is completely speechless. like genuinely stunned silent. then, after several full seconds: “wow.”

࿔ and holland looks at you with this dazed, overwhelmed expression like he cannot believe something this good actually happened to him.

[rockylandphm]

doomsday

pairing: ryland grace x reader

synopsis. ryland grace finally confess—after his twin, colt, threatens to do it himself

word count. 3.1k words

note. hi this is the part 2 of just confess but can stand alone on its own but it'll all make more sense if u read part 1 !!

Thud, thud, thud.

There are three heavy and loud knocks on Ryland Grace’s classroom as he’s picking up stacks of homework and ungraded test papers on his desk. 

How odd, he thinks. He’d dismissed his class early today, so he knows yours is still ongoing. And besides, you’d mentioned to him last week you’d be giving an exam today so he’s sure you’d use up all the time until 4:30pm. 

Ryland checks the watch on his left hand. It was still four in the afternoon on the dot–way too early for you to be knocking. And who else would be knocking on his door? Mrs. Noris who teaches history? Ryland’s not sure she can even find her way to his classroom if she needed to.

Still, against better judgement, he approaches the door and twists the knob. “Hey, I thought we were—Colt?!”

Colt is standing by the entrance of his classroom, a big shit-eating grin on his face as he invites himself in the classroom, all but shoving his twin brother aside. “So, have you done it yet?”

“What are you doing here? Hey, stop touching that.” 

Colt has all but made himself comfortable in his classroom, sitting on the desk and playing with the little bean bags that were neatly tucked away in a basket before Colt had decided to reign chaos. 

“Quality brother time, buddy.” He drops the Earth bean bag, choosing to pick up another knitted planet before hyperfixating on the solar system model above his head. He’s muttering things under his breath, things Ryland couldn’t really care for because what the fudge was his brother doing here when he should be in a film set an hour away?

“Don’t you have work?”

“Meh, Ryder was being an ass. So, I’ve got the rest of the day free and I wanted to be with my little brother. Is that so wrong?”

Ryland deadpans. “You drove an hour so we could have quality brother time?” He asks in air quotations, knowing his brother was a big fat liar. 

“I drove an hour to know if you’d asked (Name) out already! You know, just in case you chickened out. I’m basically here as moral support.” Colt arches a demanding brow, giving his twin a knowing look.

“Keep your voice down, Jesus. And no, I haven’t yet.”

“Great talk. So, when are you going to do it?”

“You make my head hurt.” Ryland takes his glasses off momentarily, rubbing at his eyes and loosening the tie wrapped around his neck. “She still has a class right now, so probably in like thirty minutes.”

“Holy shit. Thirty minutes and my brother’s life is about to change forever.”

“Yeah, until she rejects me and then you’ll be stuck with moping instead of rambling. She could just be friendly, you know. Some people are just friendly.”

“And some people are interested.” Colt’s juggling with whatever things he’s found on Ryland’s desk, and it’s so goddamn annoying when his attention is still on his brother, but his hands are effortlessly performing some other task.

“And some people are making giant assumptions that probably aren’t true.”

“Probably. So, you admit that there is a chance she could say yes. Even like a 0.000001%?”

“Well, yeah. Statistically speaking, there’s a 50/50 chance she’d say yes or no.”

“That's huuuuuge! Take those chances.” The Earth bean bag is chucked in the direction of Ryland, and he moves to catch it before it can break one of the science models behind me. 

He grumbles, telling his brother to be careful before snatching the things in his hand to return them back to where they belong.

Ryland would’ve faked annoyance, grumbling that maybe he should’ve never told Colt about his crush, but those have been decisions made by him. He had started rambling about you before he’d even known. 

And Ryland’s about to protest again, but then he stops. There’s no use. Colt’s being here is actually very much appreciated, as much as he hates to admit. Otherwise, maybe he’d have faked a sickness or chickened out like his brother had said. 

“I’m gonna do it.” 

“Good.” Colt grabs a piece of candy in Ryland’s drawer, stuffing it in his pockets. Then, with one final look at the classroom and a ruffle of his brother’s hair, he starts to head for the door with a slight lean of his head. “Good luck, buddy. If I don’t hear the outcome later, I will actually do it myself.”

“Absolutely not.” Ryland shakes his head in protest, eyes gaping in horror. “Now, go! I’ll see you back home later.”

Ding. 

A text message interrupts Ryland kicking his brother out, and with one glance at his phone and slightly shaky fingers, he mumbles. “Her class is done.” 

Big mistake. He really shouldn’t have said that out loud, because Colt’s now back inside the classroom and grabbing Ryland’s bag to head to God knows where. He doesn’t even know where your classroom is, but he’s adamant on bringing Ryland to you.

“Colt, stop it.” Despite his protests, he ends up helping his brother with the directions, but his palms are sweating, and he thinks his feet are too, and his heart is beating way too loudly and way faster than the normal heart rate.

A student looks at them curiously, at his Science teacher, and his clone who is currently dragging his ass across the hall.

“Kevin, no running.”

“I’m not… running.” The boy trails on, but he can’t even finish his sentence before Ryland is a few meters away and talking to himself and rambling and it’s the most nervous he’s ever seen his teacher. 

“Holy fudge.” Ryland’s knee-jerking reaction at seeing you in your classroom is to just stare at you unabashedly. You still don’t know he’s there, outside your door and looking at you through the transparent glass, staring as you arrange your papers on the table and make room for where you knew Ryland was going to sit later. 

“Dude, stop staring and go inside.” Colt smacks the back of his head. 

“Okay, I’m gonna do it.” 

The few steps towards your door takes a lot more than Ryland anticipates, and it takes even more to twist your doorknob. And for a moment he looks like he’s confident, but then he double takes and walks towards the direction of Colt. “I can’t. I can’t do it.” 

Colt grabs him by the arms, turning him around and pushing him back towards your door. “Yes you can.” 

“Yeah, I can. Of course I can.” Ryland stares at the door, and then back at his brother who is throwing him a stupid dirty look with his stupid wiggling eyebrows. 

He weighs his options. If he turns around again, he could just ride his brother’s truck home instead of taking the bike. But will he risk the possibility of you saying yes to him? Would he risk the chance of finally being able to kiss you? 

Absolutely not. 

The only place to go is to your classroom, and after thrice the time it takes to twist the knob, Ryland Grace finally steps inside. 

“Hi.” Ryland speaks first, voice lower and more mumbly than usual. Right off the bat, you know that he’s feeling a little anxious. 

“Hi.” You respond easily, smiling up at him as you motion for him to sit at the chair you’d pulled over for him. “Ready for another late night of grading papers?” You let your eyes dart at the clock on your wall, before looking back at the man who’s started to arrange his things on the same table. 

“Always.” Any nervousness that you’d seen in him has dissipated, and Ryland doesn’t tell you that it’s the effect of your smile—always soothing, and so beautiful. Though, beautiful isn’t even the right word to use. It doesn’t go far enough.

And for a moment, you fall back to your normal routine. You’d check papers, sometimes in silence, and sometimes with the company of his jokes. He’d show you something funny one the kids answered on the test he’s grading, and you both giggle. 

Yours in laughter, and his in admiration. 

Ryland Grace is only a person with a mind making room for more memories with you. 

And then you fall back into silence. But it’s comfortable, where words aren’t needed to be said because you understand each other even without. And Ryland jumps back in surprise at your hand on his shoulder—he’s always been jumpy—before he processes what you’re holding on your other hand.

“Here. Hot tea.” 

He takes the mug in his hands, keeping it there as he looks at you. He opens his mouth, like he’s about to say something, and for a moment it looks like he will, but then he closes it back and stares down at his mug instead. 

“Thank you.” He mumbles, raising the mug to his lips and taking a sip. His hands are starting to shake again. 

“Penny for your thoughts?” you ask, sitting down next to him instead of across from him this time. Your right side is pressing against his left, and he swears he can’t breathe at the warmth and at the proximity, and you notice the way he shivers—how he tenses with his posture suddenly fixed. “You just keep looking. I figured maybe you wanted to say something? And, I noticed the paper you’re grading right now is… kind of upside down.”

“Is it?” He’s snapped out of his reverie, staring at the upside down paper in front of him before dropping his head on the table. “Jesus, it is.” 

You laugh. 

“Look, in my defense, you’re very distracting.”

“I’m … distracting?” You ask questionably, tilting your head so you can look at him, fingers running through his back to coax him to look at you too. “That’s your defense?

“I didn’t say it’d be a good one.” Ryland mutters, and he stares at you for a second, before peeling his face off the table and taking another sip of the tea. He has to force his eyes to look away from you every now and then.

A heartbeat passes. And then some. And Ryland finally decides to break it.

“Just let me… let me gather my thoughts. I had a whole conversation planned in my head.”

“Planned? Like even my part?” You laugh, not unkindly. 

He shrugs his shoulders like it should be obvious, but you don’t miss the abashed expression on his face and the way he rubs the back of his head sheepishly. “I like being prepared, even though I’m always at a huge disadvantage when I’m with you.”

“How is being with me a disadvantage?”

"You make me forget what I want to say." He blurts.

“And… is that a bad thing?” You ask, and you see him blow across the top of his mug, and you think he’s about to take a sip but he sets his mug down instead after you ask. 

Ryland lets his eyes meet yours again, almost in a rush.

“What? No, no no no. It’s not a bad thing. It’s good! It’s just— all you really have to do is smile, and then my mind just goes blank and suddenly I’ve forgotten every single thing I’ve ever wanted to tell you.” 

You lean a little closer, pressing just a little tighter, and there is a smile on your face as you look at him. “Cute.”

He groans. “Stop. Don’t make this harder for me.”

This time, Ryland allows himself to keep his eyes on you, admiring your naturally dusted cheeks, and the glint in your eyes that tells him you know something he doesn’t, and fuck, how can you just sit there and look at him and smile and look so, so beautiful.

“You still haven’t told me what you wanted to say, Ry.” The sweetness in which his nickname rolls from your tongue has a blush creeping up on his cheek, and he looks so impossibly red right now that it almost makes you laugh. 

“Okay, so.”

“So.”

“Are you cold?”

“Ryland.” He still drops the cardigan he has tucked away on your shoulders, and he doesn’t meet your eyes again when you stare at him, with the playful threat in the tone of your voice. 

“What?” Now, Ryland’s fumbling with his pen. You think he’ll finish fumbling with just about everything on your table before he can tell you what he wants to. 

“You’re stalling.”

“I know. I’m sorry. It’s just that… the outcome of this conversation really matters to me.”

“So tell me. You know you can tell me anything, right?” You speak with such a gentle tone that Ryland doesn’t think should be allowed for you. 

It can’t be. How can you speak to him like that and look at him like that and be so considerate and so kind and expect him not to fall in love with you? 

“I…” He sucks in a deep breath. “I like spending time with you. After class, and any other time really. Break times, before class, you get my point. And I like grading papers with you.”

“I like spending time with you too.” You say slowly, hand resting on his thigh to encourage him to keep going, and he stares at it—a thin stream of steam rising on his face yet again. 

“So, I like spending time with you.”

“You already said that.” You laugh a little, trying to ease his nerves.

“I know. I was building momentum.” 

He breathes in, and he looks like he wants to say something more so you don’t say anything to interrupt him. You didn’t want to scare the thought away.

“You’re… my favorite part of working and coming here, and I don’t mind the 7ams anymore because I get to have these moments with you after where we grade papers but also before too, or during breaks like I said. Wait, can I start that thought over? Actually, don’t answer that. Fudging fudge, I promise I’m usually more articulate than this. Well, that’s also not true. But I am usually less nervous.”

“No, it’s okay. Keep going.” 

You make Ryland trip over his own words. All tangled in adoration and longing.

“Okay. So, yeah, my favorite part of work. And it doesn’t help that you’re really easy to talk to.” His voice is lower now, almost tender. “And I look forward to seeing you everyday. And I think you…r hair looks pretty, and you. You’re pretty too. And your brain! Really, it’s so great, so brilliant. You’re so… where was I? I think I’ve lost control of my thought.”

“You said my hair was pretty.”

Ryland’s face grimaces, but you take his hand in his, and he looks at you again and God, he can’t take another moment of what if’s. He can’t stand another moment of staring at you and wishing and yearning. He has to tell you. He has to let you know that the simple thought of you adds a little more inspiration to his days. That he feels less lonely with you. That his life has gone infinitely better since he met you.

“I spent so long thinking of how to say this to you, and somehow I’ve arrived at your hair is pretty. Sorry, wait… Okay. Here it goes. I like you. I might even be in love. Woah, I actually said it.”

Ryland surprises himself, but he’s smiling now because he’s achieved the impossible. He had confessed to you, and he doesn’t even notice the way you intertwine your fingers with his until he stares down at your entangled hands. 

“Well, thank God. I was starting to think maybe you were just friendzoning me for three years.”

He’s still smiling, still looking at your hands and memorizing the details of your fingers and your nails and how it feels so warm to be holding you, and how perfect your hand fits in his and wait—

“Wait, that’s not a no.”

“It’s not.”

“That’s not even a maybe.”

You hum in agreement.

“So—”

You laugh at his inability to be direct, squeezing his hand in yours. “I like you too, Ryland.”

His smile looks warmer now, more comfortable, more relieved, like he’s thought of this moment for years. Which, to be fair, he really has. He’s imagined what this moment could possibly feel like and it feels like so much in the best way possible.

Red is blossoming on Ryland’s cheeks again, and his features soften as he repeats what you’d just said to him over and over and over again. And then he laughs.

“I didn’t expect you to like me back. Is it weird I have the sudden urge to call my brother? He’s been harassing me to confess to you for a long time.”

“So, I owe Colt a personal thank you then?”

“Oh no, don’t meet him. No.” He shakes his head, and for a moment, neither of you speak and the silence bends and stretches, but it’s that same comfortable silence. And it’s only broken when you lean a little closer, eyes boring into his.

“Are you going to kiss me now?” You whisper, and his breath hitches. 

“Do I have permission to?”

“Ryland.”

“Sorry.”

Placing his palms on each side of your face, he tests the waters on how it would feel like, tracing his fingers along your face before pulling you towards him in what he thought would be the most grand romantic gesture of his life.

Instead, he underestimates your height difference, and his lips crash into your nose instead, and you laugh, and his cheeks are flushed because he didn’t mean to accidentally kiss you on the nose but maybe it’s all worth it because you’re laughing—and it’s in that beautiful way you do with your mouth open and your eyes closed. 

“Let’s try that again.” He mutters, and you look at him with so much softness in your eyes that he suddenly can’t wait to press his lips against yours. And he kisses you, with every love and affection he has kept hidden for three years. He kisses you to make up for all the times he has ever wanted to. 

And there is nothing more beautiful than this moment, and neither of you know what’s going to happen next but it doesn’t really matter because you like him and he likes you. And you don’t have to know what’s next. 

For now, you’ll just finish grading your papers, and he’ll walk you home and give you another stupid kiss. And he’ll come home with a stupid smile on his face, and fuck, he doesn’t want to live in a world where Colt was right, but he was.

So, Ryland takes a detour, drops by the bakery to buy Colt his favorite cake. He’ll have his brother to thank for finally knocking some sense into him. 

[rockylandphm]

just confess

pairing: ryland grace x reader

synopsis. in which ryland asks his twin brother, colt, for help on how to confess to you or where colt harasses his brother to just confess

word count. 1.7k words

note. i might make a part two of the actual confession .. lmk if you guys would want that or if this is enough !

part 2

There are very few things Ryland Grace can admit to without shame–the love he has for his kids, how teaching has been such a great outlet for him, his hard spent years studying Microbiology, to name a few. 

What he can’t say is a slightly longer list, and if that list was made and kept somewhere, he’s sure this very moment with his twin brother would be at Number One. Yes, even above calling the leading scholar in his field a staggering waste of carbon. 

It was this moment, asking his fuckass twin brother Colt for help on how to confess to you.

He thought he could do it himself, thought of so many ways to talk to you. But when time came to actually do it, he found that he’s grown two pairs of feet and everything but your eyes were the most interesting thing he’d ever seen.

So, he needed help. Because as much as he enjoys spending time with you, grading papers together and sneaking conversations between classes, there are times when all he really wants to do is wrap his arms around you after a long day of work, or brush away that stubborn strand of hair that always seems to fall over your eyes, or kiss the creases that form on the skin between your eyebrows when you’re deep in concentration.

But he can’t. 

Because even after knowing you for three years, he just can’t look you in your eyes and tell you that he is so fucking in love with you. He instead resorts to small gestures and acts of service so you’d hopefully be able to tell that he wants to spend the rest of his life with you.

It doesn’t work.

And then he’ll have to pick himself back again and have will-induced conversations, laughing at the pathetic corner of love inside his head. He’ll have to look you in the eyes again and pretend he isn’t affected when you look up and smile at him, or when you whisper a little too closely during shared library visits with your students.

He’ll be stuck at square one again.

And quite frankly, Colt can’t handle it anymore. If he has to listen to Ryland laughing at himself again for his inability to confess to you–whereby laughing, it’s melancholic, lonely chuckling–he will throw himself off the window of their shared apartment.

Which is something Colt can definitely do, and will do if he has to hear the heavy tone of love laced in his brother’s voice as he talks about you (because apparently, you are Top 5 Topics in their shared space) again. Besides, Colt has always been his polar opposite. When Ryland hesitates, Colt just does it.

“You’re too hesitant.” Colt says, grabbing a few papers Ryland has yet to grade on the living room table to look over what he was checking. He returns it immediately with no interest. 

Ryland is stressed, his glasses askew on his face and his hands pulling at the ends of his hair. “I know I am! It’s not like I’m not self aware. In fact, I’m too self aware and that’s the problem.”

“Just go up to her and tell her you like her.”

Ryland really wants to strangle his brother right now. “That’s easy for you to say. You’re….you! You jump into fire and fall out of tall buildings without hesitation. I’m not– I’m not brave like you.”

Colt nods sympathetically, whispering an “I am”, and murder is almost committed. Instead, Ryland chooses to just drop his face into his hands. This plan was futile from the beginning. Colt doesn’t know shit about giving advice. He has approximately one brain cell. That is almost close to none.

“Ryland.” His twin brother tries to get his attention, and Ryland slowly peels his hands off his face. “Just tell her. Tomorrow. Get it over with.”

“No, not tomorrow.”

“Okay, then how about next week?”

“No. That’s– it’s too fast.”

“Before the end of the world?”

“Uh, yeah. I can… I can do that. I like those chances.” 

“Good. Glad we're narrowing it down.” Colt sighs so loudly that the sound resonates through the room. In return, Ryland throws his pen at him in irritation, but it's caught one-handed by his brother without even looking. This only pisses him even more.

“You are approaching this like it's one of those big scary conferences you nerds like going to. It’s not. It’s way simpler than that.”

“Actually, I’d argue conferences are way fudging easier than confessing. I’d be backed up with evidence and years of research, but this?! It’s like I’m going in naked. That’s never a good thing.”

“Ew, don’t say that. I don’t want to picture you naked.” Colt cringes, and twists his face especially more at the self-censoring. “But didn’t you write a step-by-step process on what to do when she rejects you written on the whiteboard in your room?”

“That is for emotional preparedne– wait, you were in my room?!”

“Dude, you’re doing too much. You’re already assuming she doesn’t like you back before giving it a chance. And you’re refusing to give it a chance by not confessing to her. You’ve liked her for three fucking years, and I’ve had to listen!”

Ryland opens his mouth to say something, but words don’t come out. Because Colt was right, it had been three years of rambling about you, of assuming you could never feel the same way, of refusing to confess because he’d already feared the worst.

“So just,” Colt says after a heartbeat passes, stressed out of his goddamn mind. “Okay, how about this? Walk me through your ideal confession. I’m sure you’ve played this out in your head multiple times, so just tell me.”

Ryland’s eyes widen tenfold, shaking his head with so much adamancy, even with his hands flouncing around. You’d have thought somebody had asked him to go skinny dipping in front of all his co-workers.

“No way. Absolutely no way. No no no no no.” 

“Why not?”

“Because you'll make fun of me.”

“I make fun of you regardless. That's unrelated.”

Ryland stares at him in a deadpan. Colt just stares back, shrugging his shoulders.

The staring contest is a battle Ryland loses, and with a sigh, he says, “I'd just want it to be ordinary, I guess.”

His brother listens intently, chin propped on his hands and perched on the living room table.

“Ordinary how?”

Ryland picks at the end of the paper he’s currently checking, rolling it and unrolling it and folding it and unfolding it. “I don't know. Maybe after work.”

“Okay.”

“We're grading papers.”

“Very romantic.” A playful smile tugs on Colt’s lips.

“Shut up.”

“Go on.” 

“And maybe she's making tea.”

“She drinks tea? I thought she drank coffee.”

“Obviously she drinks tea.”

“How is that obvious?”

Ryland rolls his eyes at the smirk forming on his brother’s lips. “Nevermind that. She’s making tea, okay? And then I just tell her. That… that I like her.”

Then, he backtracks. “But I can’t do that. I mean, statistically speaking, that's a terrible plan. If I tell her, she’ll reject me. Then I lose my best friend. Which leaves you as my only friend, and no offense, but if the entire social structure of my life can be represented by a sample size of one, something has gone horribly wrong. Like horribly wrong.”

“I feel like I should be offended. Wait, you’re trying to change topics on me. Ryland.”

“Colt.” He repeats.

“Buddy, you spend every single day together. She likes you.” Colt pushes himself out of the couch, suddenly acting like he just cracked the case. “And! And most of all, she laughs at your jokes.” He points accusingly. “Your terrible, god awful jokes. She’s into you.”

Ryland is defensive. “People laugh at my jokes!”

“Let’s not kid ourselves. Just…” Another exasperated hand is thrown around as Colt tries to embed the thought in his brother’s mind. “Stop acting like she's doing charity work by spending time with you. Sometimes you forget you’re the best thing that’s happened to a lot of people too.”

Colt grimaces as the room grows quiet, and he’s aware he’s suddenly gone sappy over his little brother (by four minutes), but Colt has never known a life without his brother, and it’s getting real annoying listening to him be so self deprecating as if he doesn’t have a doctorate in Microbiology, as if a million single mothers haven’t had crushes on him.

“Wow.” he says. “You just said something nice about me. I feel… weird.”

“Don't act like I don’t ever say anything nice about you.” Colt says, not unkindly. Because he has, on multiple occasions even. He’s always stood up for Ryland, even since they were little kids. “Now ask her out before I have to hear another two hour monologue about how she likes her coffee. Though, apparently, she drinks tea now. Unrelated. The point is I literally know everything about her, and I haven’t even met her!”

Ryland opens his mouth.

Colt points a warning finger at him. “Just do it. Do the whole world a favor and just confess. Or just do me the favor."

The room falls quiet and a moment later, Colt disappears down the hallway readying himself for another early day tomorrow, leaving Ryland alone in the living room with half-graded papers and a pit at the bottom of his stomach when he comes to the realization that his brother might actually be right.

Not about everything, obviously. Colt is wrong about a lot of things. Most things, actually.

But maybe he was right about this.

Because for three years, Ryland has done nothing but wait. Three whole years of lingering after work just to talk to you for ten more minutes, of remembering every single story you’ve ever told him, of finding any excuse to be with you.

And another three years would pass exactly the same way if he didn’t do anything.

The thought makes him grimace, makes him want to vomit. Because Ryland Grace has done things far and beyond a simple conversation. He has a list of things he can admit to without shame, and even those with shame. He could do it.

And to hell if he'd go on another day without the permission to kiss you, and hold you, and take your hand in his.

The feeling still sits heavy in his chest, but it's different now. Less like dread and more like standing at the edge of a diving board, but this time, he’s a little more ready to make the jump.

And if by some miracle you feel the same—

Oh. Could you imagine?

Ryland can't help the smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth at the possibility.

Maybe he’ll finally listen to his brother for once in his life and tell you how he feels. Tomorrow. 

For now, he’ll keep grading his papers and writing romances with you in his head during the few minutes of break he allows himself.

[oldermenlvrgrl]

You and Ryland Grace were never supposed to meet. Just messages sent across the void, a voice in the dark, something to keep the loneliness away. But somewhere along the way, he becomes more than that. And you’re left wondering if something this fragile can survive the dying sun.

Ryland Grace x hacker reader smut

Word count: 20k

Warnings: graphic smut, making out, age gap, talk of loneliness, jealousy, lying, angst

A/n: “this is all based on the movie! An au, kinda, sorry for any inaccuracies. He still meets rocky but rocky has enough astrophage to go to Erid and Ryland goes back to earth.”

The vast expanse of space stretched endlessly beyond the reinforced porthole of the Hail Mary, a silent ocean of inky black void punctuated only by the distant, unblinking eyes of stars cold, ancient, and utterly indifferent to the fragile life contained within the ship's humming shell.

Some already dead, some just born. It had been seven days since awakening, seven interminable cycles of artificial day and night dictated by the ship's chronometer, a digital heartbeat that mocked the natural rhythms Ryland Grace had once taken for granted on Earth.

The cabin, no larger than a modest studio apartment back home, felt like a coffin adrift in eternity. Walls of matte gray alloy etched with faint scuff marks from his restless floating, and stumbling. Control panels alive with the subdued glow of leds in shades of teal and amber, and the ever present scent of recycled air laced with the faint ozone tang of electronics and the sharper, synthetic bite of his unwashed flight suit tied around his lean waist.

He floated there, suspended in the zero gravity embrace that had long since lost its novelty and become just another layer of confinement. His body, slender from months of casual exercise but now softened by inactivity, drifted lazily as he maneuvered toward the galley nook.

The past week had been a descent into quiet desperation, a mental unraveling disguised as routine. Mission protocols had outlined every contingency except the soul crushing solitude, the kind that seeped into your bones like cosmic radiation, eroding resolve one silent hour at a time. He'd run diagnostics until the readouts blurred in his vision, plotted trajectories that looped back to the same grim calculus. Save the sun or die trying, alone.

The vodka, smuggled in a hidden compartment as a nod to one of his fallen comrades. He'd savored it earlier that evening (or what passed for evening in this timeless drift), the fiery liquid burning a path down his throat, warming his core against the perpetual chill that no amount of thermal regulation could fully banish. It had loosened the knot in his chest, if only for a moment, allowing him to confront the inevitable without the sharp edge of panic.

With the buzz fading into a dull throb behind his eyes, survival demanded pragmatism. He retrieved an unopened packet of ramen from the storage locker, its foil wrapper crinkling softly in the hush. The hot water dispenser hummed to life, dispensing a measured stream that he poured into the pouch, watching as steam bloomed in ethereal curls, twisting and dissipating in the weightless air like ghosts fleeing the light.

He sat himself at the fold down table with a his suit shifting around his waist and tore open the packet. The noodles, reconstituted into a steaming tangle, carried the artificial allure of beef and spice flavors engineered in a lab to evoke comfort, but tasting now like a pale echo of terrestrial meals.

He slurped them with deliberate care, broth dribbling onto his chin before he caught it with a swipe of his hand. Each bite was a ritual, a tether to humanity the salty warmth coating his tongue, the faint crunch of dehydrated vegetables yielding under his teeth, the way the steam fogged his glasses momentarily before he pushed them up the bridge of his nose.

The main console, dominating the forward bulkhead like a watchful oracle, bathed the space in its cool luminescence. Holographic projections flickered with real time data oxygen levels steady at 21%, hull integrity nominal, solar sails deploying in incremental whispers of efficiency.

The Eriduri system loomed in his mind's eye, a distant promise of purpose amid the stellar nursery of Rho Eridani, where alien worlds might hold the key to Earth's salvation. But here, in the interstitial black between stars, it was just him. The former middle school science teacher turned reluctant savior, his reflection in the screen a haggard ghost with unkept hair, stubble shadowing his jaw, and eyes shadowed by the weight of unspoken fears. His glasses reflecting hollowed light back to him.

He was midway through his meal, chopsticks poised for another awkward scoop, when the anomaly intruded. A subtle shift in the console's interface, a new window materializing in the lower right quadrant, unbidden and unauthorized.

A bioluminescent green cursor appeared, not the standard mission glyph but a simple, archaic underscore, blinking with rhythmic insistence.

On, off, on, off.

It was an anachronism in this high tech sanctum, evoking old Earth computers from his childhood stories, and it snagged his attention like a hook in still water.

He set the ramen aside, the pouch falling over with some uneaten weight, and propelled himself closer. His heart quickened, a staccato drum against his ribs, as the first message resolved letter by letter, each pixel igniting with deliberate slowness.

“Moonwalk”

The word materialized in crisp white sans serif font, hovering against the starry backdrop feed that served as the screen's default saver. Moonwalk. What cryptic nonsense was this? His mind cataloged possibilities in a flash. Solar flare interference scrambling the display? A subroutine glitch from the AI core? Or something more sinister: a breach in the firewall, an external ping from who knows where?

The Hail Mary was designed as a fortress of solitude, its comms array tuned to burst transmissions back to Earth, not casual chit chat. Yet here it was, in English no garbled code, no binary spew just a single, playful term that conjured images of Michael Jackson's iconic glide or Neil Armstrong's first lunar steps. Absurd, given his circumstances.

Wiping his hands on the frayed thighs of his pants the fabric worn soft from repeated use, carrying the faint imprint of his palms he leaned into the keyboard harness. His fingers, still greasy from the meal, hesitated over the keys, the plastic cool and unyielding. Protocols screamed caution. Isolate the terminal, run a scan. But curiosity, that old scientific vice, overrode them. He typed, the clack of keys echoing faintly in the cabin like Morse code tapped on metal.

“Never learned how”

He pressed enter, the message vanishing into the buffer with a soft chime that seemed louder than intended. Leaning back, the unused harness straps digging into his shoulders, he watched the cursor pulse. The cabin's atmosphere thickened, the air recyclers' whisper now a held breath, the distant creak of the hull expanding and contracting in the thermal flux outside amplifying his anticipation.

Seconds stretched into minutes; he could hear his own respiration, steady but laced with an undercurrent of adrenaline. The stars wheeled imperceptibly beyond the viewport, a cosmic ballet indifferent to his vigil. Then, a response.

“lol”

Three letters, lowercase and lighthearted, blooming on the screen like a shared secret. Laughter of the lines lowercase lol a digital chuckle that pierced the sterile void. Ryland's lips twitched, then parted in a genuine, dorky grin, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

Amusement bubbled up, unbidden and warm, chasing away the vodka's lingering fog. It was human, this flawed, informal, alive. In a ship built for precision and isolation, it felt like a breach of sunlight through armored plating. Intrigued, he felt a spark ignite in his chest, not fear but a tentative thrill, the first crack in the monotony's facade.

Emboldened, his fingers danced toward the keys again. Who are you? The thought appeared, glowing with curiosity, but doubt slithered in like coolant vapor from a vent. Who indeed? Mission control wouldn't toy like this. He backspaced furiously, the deletions a rapid fire retreat, leaving the cursor naked once more. Arms crossed over his chest, studying the interface as if it might betray its secrets through sheer willpower. The ramen cooled untouched, its aroma fading into the ambient staleness. The cursor stirred anew, as if sensing his impatience.

“Ryland Grace?”

His full name, precise and personal, etched in text that felt like a whisper directly into his ear. A jolt ran through him, electric and intimate, raising the fine hairs on his arms. How? The manifest was classified, the signal encrypted. His pulse thrummed in his temples, the cabin's confines pressing closer the overhead lights casting long shadows across the lockers stocked with freeze dried provisions, the emergency suit hanging like a sentinel in its alcove, the faint hum of the xenonite processors in the lab module aft, churning data on Erid's alien biology. Trust was a scarce resource out here, rationed like water. He didn't reply immediately, letting minutes accrue like interest on a debt. His mind raced through scenarios: a deep space probe with a rogue program? Intercepted comms from a rival nation? Or, improbably, a genuine connection to another soul, reaching across the light years?

The pit in his stomach twisted, a cold coil of uncertainty, but he couldn't ignore it. Finally, with a deep breath that fogged the console's edge, he typed.

“Depends on who's asking.”

Enter. The words launched into the unknown, and he unstrapped, pushing off toward the viewport to stare into the abyss. The wait gnawed at him, each second amplifying the ship's subtle symphony: the soft whoosh of air ducts, the occasional ping of micrometeorite deflection on the shields, the distant throb of the fusion drive idling in standby. His reflection overlaid the stars wide eyed, wary, yet undeniably drawn in.

“Interesting.”

The reply arrived like a gentle prod, enigmatic and laced with intrigue. No elaboration, just that single word, dangling like bait. He exhaled, a chuckle escaping despite himself callous, self deprecating, the kind that acknowledged the absurdity without surrendering to it. He returned to the console, but sleep called, or at least the pretense of it. Unstrapping fully, he navigated the narrow corridor to his bunk pod, a cocoon of padded netting and memory foam that molded to his form in the null g. The lights dimmed to a nocturnal red, simulating twilight over some imagined horizon, but rest proved elusive.

He turned in the restraints, the fabric sighing against his skin, his thoughts a tempest. What entity wielded such access? A hacker probing NASA's vaults? An alien intelligence mimicking human idiom? Or something benign, a forgotten subroutine awakened by his vodka fueled tinkering? The lol replayed in his mind, evoking a phantom smile, a bridge of humor spanning the unbridgeable. It humanized the unknown, stirring a longing he hadn't named: connection, however fleeting, in this engineered loneliness. The ship's log would note his vitals spiking, heart rate elevated, cortisol traces but he dismissed it, chasing fragments of dreams where voices echoed without screens.

Far below, on the blue marble of Earth, in a cramped dorm room at a university, the mysterious coder huddled over a laptop. The space was a chaotic haven of academia posters of nebulae and circuit diagrams peeling from cinderblock walls, a desk buried under textbooks on astrophysics and quantum computing, the glow of your screen the sole light against the midnight hush of the hallway outside.

You’d been debugging a simulation for your senior project, a virtual model of deep space comms when a stray line of code, born of late night impulse, had latched onto a public NASA feed.

What started as a glitch evolved into a handshake, your terminal bridging the gulf to the Hail Mary through some overlooked vulnerability in the pre launch software. Fingers hovering over her keyboard, you bit your lip, heart racing with a mix of terror and exhilaration. Ryland Grace the name from headlines, the man who'd gotten voluntold for the impossible.

Your accidental intrusion had unearthed greatness, a living legend adrift, and in that moment, two isolates astronaut and student touched across the void, the first thread of an unforeseen tapestry weaving through the stars.

The fluorescent hum of the lecture hall lights buzzed like a persistent insect against the edges of your frayed consciousness, a relentless drone that mirrored the chaos swirling in your skull.

It was mid morning on campus, the kind of crisp day where leaves skittered across the quad like errant thoughts, carried on a breeze that whispered promises of change you couldn't quite grasp. But inside this cavernous room rows of tiered seating scarred by years of restless students, the air thick with the mingled scents of stale coffee, fresh printer ink from syllabus handouts, and the faint, earthy undertone of rain dampened wool coats you were adrift, untethered.

The professor's voice washed over you in waves, a monotonous tide of jargon about astrophage propagation models and orbital decay rates, but the words dissolved before they could anchor. Your notebook lay open on the pull down desk, its lined pages a barren landscape marred only by a half hearted doodle of a spiraling galaxy, born from the night's insomnia.

You shifted in your seat, the vinyl cushion creaking softly under your weight, the chill seeping through your jeans a stark reminder of the draft snaking in from the half open window at the back.

Around you, classmates scribbled notes with the fervor of the damned, their pens scratching like tiny claws on paper, illuminated by the projector’s blue glow casting ethereal shadows across their faces.

One girl two rows ahead twisted her hair into a knot, her foot tapping a rhythmic Morse code of impatience; a guy to your left yawned wide enough to crack his jaw, the sound swallowed by the professor's droning explanation of simulation parameters. You envied their obliviousness, their ability to inhabit this mundane bubble while your world had cracked open like a fault line in the Earth's crust, spilling secrets from the stars.

Ryland Grace. The name alone conjured a constellation of memories you'd pieced together in the witching hours, fragments gleaned from flickering screens and breathless news clips. Everyone knew of him or at least, the myth of him. The unassuming science teacher from some sleepy town, plucked from obscurity to join the ranks of the great volunteers, those improbable heroes who'd stumbled into the astrophage crisis like characters in a cosmic thriller.

You'd seen the archival footage, the press conference where he'd cracked a smile lined with a lopsided grin, rubbing the back of his neck as if embarrassed by the weight of salvation on his shoulders. "Just doing my part." Voice steady but laced with that arid, self effacing humor that made the anchors chuckle.

Saving Earth hadn't been a grand quest for him; it was puzzle solving on a planetary scale, his mind a quiet engine turning the tide against the solar devouring plague. Interviews painted him as the everyman savior awkward pauses, thoughtful stares into the camera, a man who'd traded chalkboards for starships. But last night, those pixels had come alive, not as history but as a living echo, his words from old talks looping in your headphones until dawn crept in, painting your bedroom window with light.

Sleep had been a cruel tease, slipping through your fingers like comet dust. You'd collapsed onto your bed around four a.m., the mattress sagging under the pile of textbooks and hoodies that doubled as your pillow fort, but your eyes refused to close.

You'd propped yourself against the headboard, the wooden frame groaning in sympathy, and let the glow of your laptop pull you under. The room around you was a testament to controlled chaos string lights draped haphazardly over the bed's headboard, casting warm amber pools across the cluttered desk where your project files sprawled like a digital battlefield.

Empty energy drink cans formed a metallic skyline along the windowsill, their aluminum cool to the touch when you'd reached for one absentmindedly, the fizz long gone. Posters of pulsar arrays and exoplanet renderings peeled at the corners from the cinderblock walls, curling like invitations to elsewhere, while the faint scent of microwave popcorn lingered from a study session that had devolved into solitude.

A few miles down the road, campus stirred faintly the distant rumble of a maintenance truck, the muffled laughter of early risers heading to the dining hall but in here, isolation wrapped around you like a second skin, thick and unyielding.

The project had seemed innocuous at the start, just another hoop in the gauntlet of your senior year. Professor Hale, with his wire rimmed glasses perpetually fogged from his perpetual thermos of black tea, had leaned against the chalkboard that first day, sleeves rolled up to reveal faded tattoos of orbital paths inked in his wilder youth. "Optimize Earth based satellite observations of astrophage activity." he'd intoned, his voice gravelly from too many late nights grading.

"Simulate the feeds, patch the blind spots, think of it as giving our eyes in the sky a tune up." You'd nodded along, fingers flying over your keyboard to jot the specs of low Earth orbit trajectories, infrared spectral analysis, error correcting algorithms to filter the noise from the astrophage blooms that still haunted the solar system's fringes.

It was meant to be entirely theoretical, a sandbox of code and data drawn from public archives, honing your skills for the post grad job hunt in a field where wonder paid in spreadsheets.

But curiosity, that sly saboteur, had nudged you further. Late one evening, fueled by a cocktail of caffeine and quiet desperation, you'd tinkered with a backdoor subroutine, a harmless tweak to mimic real time pings, pulling from declassified NASA relays. What you'd expected was a simulated touch, a loop of dummy data echoing back your inputs.

However, the terminal had hiccuped, lines of code unraveling like frayed wiring, latching onto something distant, anomalous. Faulty engineering, you'd realize later, a pre launch oversight in the Hail Mary's comms firewall, a vulnerability born of rushed deadlines and the frantic scramble to launch the volunteer vessel light years toward Tau Ceti.

Your screen had bloomed with an unfamiliar interface, the cursor blinking like a beacon in the void, and then connection. Not to a satellite cluster orbiting Earth, but to him. The man orbiting, adrift in the interstellar black, his ship's systems whispering back through the ether.

The ethical storm had brewed from that first spark. You'd stared at the exchange of his cautious quips, your hapless lol that had made your chest ache with unexpected warmth feeling the weight of it settle like lead in your veins. Detrimental didn't begin to cover it.

This wasn't a prank or a glitch; it was a breach, a digital trespass into classified solitude. Reporting it meant scrutiny, investigations, questions about your code, the potential unraveling of your academic life in a university already rife with cutthroat competition.

Whispers in the halls about "that girl who hacked the stars" could turn admiration to suspicion, scholarships revoked, futures derailed.

A greedy part of you, the one curled in the shadows of your loneliness, wanted to hoard it. This secret bridge, this improbable thread linking your cramped dorm to the endless night it was yours, a private rebellion against the isolation that gnawed at you daily.

No roommates to share the burden (yours had transferred out last semester, leaving the space echoing with absence), no family calls that pierced the time zones without feeling performative. You were an island in a sea of faces, your nights spent chasing equations while the world outside paired off in laughter and light.

Yet the moral compass you'd inherited honed by ethics seminars and late night debates in the astrophysics lounge tugged insistently. Was this kindness or cruelty?

He was alone out there, somewhat alone. You wondered, if he had the rest of the crew to support him. In the quiet hours as your laptop fan whirred like a distant engine, if you were his only voice since departure. No mission control pings, no AI companions beyond cold protocols, just the hum of life support and the stars' indifferent gaze.

Communicating again risked everything his focus, the mission's integrity, your own fragile grip on normalcy. Sweep it under the rug, delete the logs, let the connection fade like a dream upon waking. But truth be told, the thought hollowed you out. You were just as marooned in your own way drifting through lectures and labs, the weight of unspoken dreams pressing like the dorm's thin walls against the wind.

Loneliness wasn't measured in light years; it was the echo in an empty room, the ache of reaching for something real across an unbridgeable gap.

As the professor wrapped up, dismissing the class with a wave toward the whiteboard's scrawled equations, you lingered, your fingers tracing the edge of your notebook.

The hall emptied in a rustle of backpacks and murmured plans for lunch, the air growing cooler in their wake. The voices beckoned with its deceptive normalcy students huddled over phones, leaves swirling in eddies but your mind was light years away, tangled in the what ifs.

Type another message? Or let the cursor's blink become a memory, fading into the cosmic static? The dilemma coiled in your chest, tender and raw, a slow burning fire fed by the shared solitude of two souls one in a metal ship slicing through the void, the other in a concrete tower under earthly skies.

For now, you rose, slinging your bag over your shoulder, the strap biting into your skin like a promise you weren't ready to keep. But the pull was there, insistent as gravity, drawing you back toward the screen that waited in your room.

The glow of your laptop screen bathed your bedroom in a soft, ethereal black and green, turning the cluttered space into a makeshift command center suspended between worlds.

It was well past midnight now, the campus outside your window hushed under a blanket of stars that felt mocking in their proximity close enough to touch if you stretched, yet infinitely distant compared to the man on the other end of this improbable line.

Your desk lamp flickered faintly, casting elongated shadows across the scattered notes from Professor Hale's class, their edges curling like whispers of forgotten equations. The air in the room hung heavy with the remnants of your all nighter the tangy bite of cooling ramen broth from a bowl pushed aside hours ago, the faint putrid whiff from your overheating processor, and the subtle, comforting musk of your oversized hoodie, pulled tight around you like armor against the chill seeping through the single pane window.

Your fingers, chilled from the draft, hovered over the keys, the plastic cool and unyielding beneath them, as if the keyboard itself sensed the gravity of what you were about to reveal.

You took a breath, the kind that rattled in your chest like loose change in a pocket, and began typing. The cursor blinked patiently, a steady heartbeat in the digital void separating you from the Hail Mary.

“Hey, it's me again. I'm a software engineering major, working on predictive models for harnessing the Sun's energy to speed up algae growth, think solar powered superfood for the apocalypse and real time tracking of astrophage blooms. Totally nerdy stuff. Anyway, while I was running some code to test signal relays and satellite algorithms, I guess my experimental tweaks intercepted your live comms? Your ship's out there observing and experimenting in real time, and boom accidental hack. Sorry not sorry?”

Hitting enter felt like launching a probe into uncharted space, your heart thudding in sync with the fan's low whirl. The seconds stretched, elastic and taut, until his response flooded the screen in a cascade of text that made your eyes widen.

He was taken aback, that much was clear from the rapid fire paragraphs waves of information surging over him like a solar flare. Relief? Terror? Or some cocktail of both that left him reeling at the thought of a college kid breaching his interstellar fortress.

You could almost picture it, him in that cramped cockpit, brawn frame tensed against the acceleration couch, his face those sharp features from the interviews, etched with the lines of too many sleepless missions paling under the console's amber glow as he processed the intrusion. Then, the punchline landed.

“You’re getting an A, for sure.”

A laugh bubbled up from your throat, unbidden and bright, cutting through the room's stale quiet like a comet's tail. You clapped a hand over your mouth, but it was too late the sound echoed off the cinderblock walls, startling you into a grin. Imagining the crinkle at the corners of his eyes, that signature quirk from the old press clips where he'd deflect heavy questions with a wry twist of his lips, made your cheeks warm. He was out there, cracking jokes amid the void, and somehow, it bridged the gap just a fraction.

Emboldened, you typed back, fingers dancing now with a lightness you hadn't felt all day.

“How’s space?”

His reply came slower, measured, sidestepping the shadows you sensed lurking in his subtext, the impending doom coiled in his chest like a spring, the ghosts of comrades he'd watched drift into the black. No, he wasn't ready for that confessional dive.

“Totally super cool.”

You chuckled again, softer this time, the sound muffled as you leaned back in your creaky desk chair, its springs protesting like an old friend ribbing you. Boring? Understatement of the century. But there was a intellectual wit in the brevity, a relatable deflection that screamed adulting in the apocalypse.

Picturing him out there, surrounded by blinking readouts and the endless starfield, boiling down cosmic isolation to a tourist brochure line, it was almost endearing.

“Seen any aliens yet?”

You fired off, curiosity laced with a playful nudge, testing the waters of this bizarre rapport. Quicker this time, his words zipped back.

“Dont joke about that. It's actually an irrational fear I have.”

Your fingers paused mid air, the keyboard's faint clicks falling silent as a flutter stirred in your chest not just intrigue, but something warmer, like sunlight filtering through storm clouds. His vulnerability peeked through the screen, raw and unexpected, making the distance feel less like a barrier and more like a shared secret.

You told yourself it was just the thrill of the connection, the absurdity of chatting with a space legend via glitchy code, but the warmth lingered, pooling low and insistent.

Not sure if it was too soon, hell, you'd been at this for what, hours now? your mind wandered to the crew, those faceless figures from the mission briefings, sealed in their tin can hurtling through the dark.

“Has any of the crew made any interactions outside the ship?”

The pause that followed was interminable, the cursor's blink stretching into eternity, each flash a metronome counting the weight of unspoken truths. Your room seemed to hold its breath with you the string lights dimming slightly as your laptop battery dipped, the distant hum of a vending machine in the hall fading to white noise. When his response finally materialized, it was clipped, heavy.

“No it's been quiet.”

A beat, then.

“Too quiet.”

Your stomach tightened, a visceral twist that had nothing to do with the half eaten granola bar on your desk. Loneliness, typed out in stark pixels, sounded so achingly human, so tangible it clawed at your own isolation. Why you? Why this glitchy backdoor the only lifeline piercing his solitude? Fingers moving slowly, deliberate, you typed to bridge the chasm without prodding too deep.

“Sometimes quiet is good. Makes life feel slower.”

He stared at the words, the ship's hum a constant underscore to his thoughts. How was some college kid dispensing life advice like a pint sized therapist? He was double your age, probably scarred by lesson plans and lab explosions long before she'd aced her first midterm. But damn if it didn't land, a gentle nudge against the isolation gnawing at his edges. He liked the rhythm of it, the easy back and forth that felt less like interrogation and more like camaraderie. Entertaining it further couldn't hurt.

“It wasn’t much different on Earth.”

Your brows furrowed, creasing the space between them as you leaned closer to the screen, the glow reflecting in your eyes like distant nebulae.

“How so?”

“The loneliness."

The words hung there, simple and stark, pulling your thoughts back to the crew the team he'd launched with, packed into that pressurized pod like sardines in a survival suit. Confusion bubbled up, relatable in its everyday logic.

“But you're surrounded by the other astronauts in a tin can.”

A slight laugh escaped him, huffed through his nose in the confines of the cockpit, the sound swallowed by the recyclers' whir. He pushed his glasses up his nose. It would've been funny, pitch perfect cosmic irony, if the circumstances didn't carve it hollow. His fingers tapped out the truth, steady as a heartbeat monitor. His bottom lip tucked between his teeth, glancing at the keyboard and the screen.

“It’s just me.”

You froze, the cursor's blink the only movement on your screen as his words sank in, heavy as asteroid debris. No immediate reply from you, just the quiet digestion, the room's shadows deepening as empathy wrapped around you like a chill draft. Finally, soft and sincere.

“Im sorry.”

“Dont be.”

Your lips tightened, a thoughtful press as you racked your brain for a lifeline, something to haul the mood from the brink without dismissing the ache. The clock on your nightstand glowed 2:17 a.m., a reminder of how the hours had slipped away in this digital confessional. Funny, wasn't it? You, who stumbled over small talk at coffee lines and ghosted group chats, had poured out paragraphs to a stranger, an astronaut, no less via a hacked interface that probably violated a dozen treaties. Easier this way, pixels over people, no awkward eye contact or fumbling pauses.

“Im stuck on Earth, you’re stuck in space, friends?”

You hit send on the olive branch, hoping it landed light, not too forward though after spilling guts across the void, what was one more leap? His reply came swift, warm as a solar flare.

“Already are.”

A smile tugged at your lips, genuine and slow, chasing away the room's lingering chill. In that moment, the room's confines felt a little less like a cage, the stars outside a little less indifferent. Two loners, tethered by code and coincidence, trading quips in the quiet hours, it was the start of something improbably real, witty and warm against the cold expanse.

The Hail Mary drifted onward, a lone speck in the infinite black, its hull whispering secrets to the void with every faint creak of expanding metal under the sun's distant gaze. Two days had slipped by since that last flicker of words on the console. The silence had settled in like frost on a winter window, creeping into every corner of his world.

The ship's rhythm, once a monotonous hum of life support and engine purrs, now amplified the emptiness the soft whoosh of air recyclers, the occasional ping of telemetry data scrolling unread across screens, the weightless drift of a stray protein bar wrapper orbiting his bunk like a mocking satellite.

He sat there in the dim glow of the lab module, the lights casting long, ethereal shadows that danced across the grated floors and bulkheads, turning the cramped space into a cavern of solitude.

Isolation wasn't new; it was the mission's cruel companion but this felt sharper, like a blade honed by that brief spark of connection. He tugged at the elastic waistband of his boxers, the fabric worn thin from endless lounging, and let his body curl slightly in the work chair.

His mind wandered back to you, unbidden, piecing together fragments from the ether a software whiz, algae models and astrophage trackers, that easy laugh in text form.

What did you look like? He pictured hair tied back in a hasty ponytail, eyes bright with late night caffeine highs, maybe freckles dusting a nose buried in code. Or worse, the cynical voice in his head chimed some basement dwelling troll, all greasy bangs and conspiracy posters, typing from a lair of empty energy drink cans. He snorted softly, the sound echoing hollowly, a coarse chuckle that didn't quite reach his eyes. Rubbing a hand over his face, stubble rasping like sandpaper.

He wished you'd ping again, that green cursor blinking like a heartbeat in the dark. But reaching out? Nah, too clingy for a guy who'd just admitted his crew was ghosts. He drifted through questions in his mind, rehearsing them like a nervous kid prepping for a date. What's your favorite constellation? Ever wonder if algae dreams of the stars? Keep it light, don't scare you off with the void's weight.

The console hummed nearby, its green interface a siren call, tempting him to poke at the code, see if he could nudge the signal stronger. And then, like a comet streaking through fogged thoughts, the idea ignited video.

Why settle for pixels when he could bridge the gap with faces, voices? A simple upgrade to the relay tweaks the bandwidth, patching the vulnerability you'd exploited. See you for real, catch those eyes he'd imagined, maybe even share a real laugh that echoed beyond text. His pulse quickened at the notion, a warm flush creeping up his neck despite the ship's steady 20 degree chill.

As the fantasy sharpened, what if you had a smile that lit up like a supernova, soft curves under oversized hoodies, fingers nimble on keys and maybe elsewhere? his hand drifted lower, almost unconsciously. The thin cotton of his boxers tented slightly under the growing ache, and he palmed himself through the fabric, a slow, deliberate pressure that sent a shiver racing up his spine.

Space made everything feel amplified, his body responded with a lazy heat, blood rushing southward in the weightless drift. He bit back a groan, eyes fluttering shut as he imagined your voice, breathy and curious, asking about his day among the stars. God, he was pathetic forty something astronaut, science teacher turned savior, reduced to this by a hacker's hello.

Felt like a virgin fumbling in the dark, heart hammering over the first girl who'd tossed him a line. His strokes grew firmer, thumb circling the outline of his hardening length, the friction building a low burn that contrasted the cool air whispering over his skin.

Crazy over text from a stranger light years away might as well launch himself into a black hole, let the event horizon swallow the embarrassment. But the desire coiled tighter, tender and raw, mingling loneliness with a spark of something deeper, a yearning for connection that went beyond code. He slowed his hand, breathing ragged in the quiet, the ship's hum a distant lullaby as he floated there, suspended between isolation and impossible want.

The third day dawned or what passed for dawn in the eternal night of the Hail Mary's orbit with him hunched over the workbench in the engineering bay, the faint buzz of soldering iron filling the air like a persistent whisper.

His fingers, callused from years of jury rigging prototypes back on Earth, danced with delicate precision over the circuit board, tweaking the final relays for the video patch. The labs module's lights cast long shadows across the exposed wiring, glinting off the half assembled comms array that sprawled like a mechanical spider on the console.

Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the controlled chill, the recycled air carrying a sharp tang of flux and overheated silicon. He'd barely slept, mind replaying your last message. A lot like a loop of forbidden code, warm and insistent in the cold void.

Every solder joint felt like a step closer to bridging the impossible distance, to seeing the curve of your smile or the way your eyes might light up mid sentence. The ship hummed around him, a symphony of soft whirs and distant vents, but his world had narrowed to this the glow of the oscilloscope, the flicker of test signals bouncing back green. A weight pressing on his chest like unspent thrust, but you? You were the variable that disrupted the equations, turning isolation into something almost bearable.

The console chimed then, a sharp trill that cut through the haze, and his head snapped up so fast he nearly tangled in the tethers. His heart kicked like a thruster firing cold, a rush of adrenaline flooding his veins hot. The screen bloomed with your words.

“Sorry been busy with classes.”

A grin split his face, wide and unguarded, the kind that pulled at muscles he'd forgotten how to use. Happiness bloomed in his chest, fierce and unbidden, chasing away the shadows that had crept in during the wait.

Three days seventy two hours of staring at blank screens, replaying old logs, wondering if the connection had frayed like a worn tether. But here you were, slipping back into his digital orbit as if the gulf between worlds was just a skipped coffee break. He floated there for a beat, weightless in more ways than one, the soldering iron cooling forgotten in his grip. God, it felt good. Like the first breath after holding it too long, or the sun breaking through the milky ways hazy atmosphere in his wildest mission dreams.

He didn't type right away, letting the moment settle, his fingers drumming a silent rhythm on the console's edge. Jealousy flickered at the edges of that joy, a petty spark he shoved down quick classes? Professors droning on about algorithms while you hunched over notebooks, surrounded by chatter and the scent of chalk dust? It twisted something in him, imagining your attention pulled away, scattered among strangers who couldn't possibly understand the fire you'd accidentally ignited across the stars. Like I'm not the highlight reel here, he thought, the words bitter on his tongue even unspoken. What if those lectures swallowed you whole, left him adrift again in this tin can, just another blip on a forgotten feed?

But then the flip side hit, softening the edge those same classes, that relentless grind of sims and data dives, were the very glitch that had beamed you into his life. Your project, your midnight tweaks chasing astrophage hints through satellite streams, had cracked open his ship's firewalls like a serendipitous wormhole. Without it, he'd be alone with the ramen packets and the endless starfield, no witty barbs to pierce the quiet, no voice (text bound, sure, but alive) to remind him he wasn't erased from the universe. Gratitude tangled with the envy, turning it into something almost tender, a quiet acknowledgment that fate had a wry sense of humor.

Shaking off the tangle, he leaned forward, the prototype's final test light winking affirmatively beside him.

“No worries, classes sound like a solid alibi. Mine involved dodging cosmic rays and arguing with a finicky antenna. How'd yours go? Any breakthroughs that rival hacking a spaceship?”

He hit enter, the words laced with that dry lilt he hoped carried his relief, masking the way his pulse still thrummed from your return. The engineering bay felt less claustrophobic now, the air warmer against his skin, as if your message had nudged the life support up a notch.

Back in the bedroom, the afternoon sun slanted through half drawn blinds, dusting your desk in golden motes that danced over the scattered printouts and cooling mug of tea. The lecture hall's echo still lingered in your ears, the professor's voice droning on vector calculus, your mind half there, half wandering to the man soldering away in silence.

Guilt had nipped at you all morning, a persistent itch amid the rustle of notebooks and the faint hum of the overhead projector. You'd checked your phone a dozen times during breaks, thumb hovering over the app that bridged your worlds, but classes had chained you down group discussions on energy models, a pop quiz that demanded focus you could barely muster.

Now, free at last, the weight lifted as you watched his reply pop up, that familiar humor wrapping around the screen like a comforting arm. A soft laugh escaped you, easing the tension in your shoulders, the room's clutter textbooks piled like fallen stars, a forgotten hoodie draped over the chair fading into the background.

“Breakthroughs? Nah, just survived a debate on quantum entanglement without dozing off. Your antenna drama sounds way more exciting. Jealous of the stars yet?”

His chuckle rumbled low in the module, vibrating through the bulkhead as he read it, the prototype humming to life beside him with a series of affirming beeps. Jealous? Of the stars? He was jealous of the desk that got to feel your elbows propped on it, the air that carried your sighs. But he kept it light, fingers flying.

“Stars are overrated, cold and distant. I made something. A prototype. Video feed's primed. Hoping to bridge the faceless words, want to try?”

Your breath hitched, the sun warming your cheeks as you stared at the words, anticipation coiling slow and sweet in your belly. The room felt smaller, more alive, the distant murmur of campus life outside your window a faint underscore to the pull toward him.

“Show me the cosmos, Ryland.”

The feed flickered to life with a hesitant shimmer, the hue blooming across your laptop screen like the first tentative strokes of dawn on a frost kissed windowpane. Pixels danced and settled, resolving your image into crystalline clarity against the cluttered sanctuary of your room the walls a patchwork of faded posters constellations mapped in marker ink, band logos peeling at the corners from the relentless humidity of late nights and the soft, diffused glow of a desk lamp casting elongated shadows that played across the rumpled sheets of your unmade bed.

The air in your space hung heavy with the mingled scents of instant noodles cooling in a bowl nearby, the faint citrus tang of your shampoo lingering from an earlier shower, and the earthy scent of rain soaked soil drifting in through the cracked window, where the dying sun painted the horizon in strokes of molten orange and bruised violet. In this pocket of solitude, the world contracted to the intimate glow of the screen, your reflection staring back with wide eyes framed by tousled hair, catching the light like threads of spun copper.

He felt the ship's systems hum beneath him like a living entity, the steady vibration of the life support recyclers thrumming through the deck plating and into his bones, a constant reminder of the fragile bubble separating him from the indifferent vacuum beyond the reinforced viewports.

The console before him bathed his face in cool blue light, etching sharp contrasts along the rugged lines of his features. The faint stubble shadowing his jaw a little more darker, the creases at the corners of his eyes deepened by years of squinting into telescopes and troubleshooting engines under the relentless sun. He was older than you'd imagined, not the boyish hero of news reels, but a man weathered by time and trials, his frame solid and unyielding in the confines of the harness that kept him anchored amid the weightless drift. The white 'Horse Shoe Bend Auto Club' shirt, a relic from his pre mission days, stretched across his chest, the fabric softened by countless cycles through a washing machine, its faded lettering a testament to simpler times spent wrenching on carburetors and swapping stories over cold beers. It clung to him in the recycled air, hinting at the breadth of his shoulders, the subtle play of tendons in his neck as he swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing with the force of the moment.

You were taken aback, your breath hitching in your throat as his image sharpened the way his messy hair, threaded with silver at the temples, curled slightly at the ends from the humidity controls fighting a losing battle against his natural waves. He looked at you not with the polished detachment of a broadcast interview, but with raw, unguarded surprise, his blue eyes framed with gold from his glasses like distant stars widening as they traced the soft contours of your face, the gentle slope of your shoulders beneath the oversized hoodie that swallowed you whole.

You wondered, in that electric instant, if the age between you registered for him as a chasm or a curiosity if a man who'd stared down the apocalypse could find something stirring in the fresh bloom of your youth, the unscarred optimism that still clung to you like morning dew. The thought sent a flush creeping up your neck, warm and insistent, making you shift in your chair, the wooden legs scraping softly against the linoleum floor, a sound swallowed by the sudden roar of your pulse in your ears.

He, too, reeled from the impact, his hand tightening on the armrest until the synthetic leather creaked under his grip. The void outside the porthole seemed to press closer, the starfield a glittering abyss that paled against the warmth radiating from your pixelated form. He'd pictured you in fragments during the text exchanges, clever fingers flying over keys, a mind sharp as a laser probe but this? This was visceral, the way your lips parted slightly in surprise, the faint blush that ghosted your cheeks when you smiled tentatively, the subtle rise and fall of your chest mirroring his own quickened breaths. Desire flickered low in his gut, unbidden and fierce, tempered by the tenderness of seeing you real, human, alive in a way the sterile confines of his ship had begun to erode. The air recyclers whispered on, circulating the faint metallic tang of the cabin, but it couldn't dispel the heat building between you, a tension coiling like a spring in the ether.

“Oh. Wow.” He breathed, blinking rapidly, like each blink took a photo of you. The words escaping in a gravelly rush, roughened by disuse and the dry swallow of recycled oxygen, carrying across the universe with a vulnerability that made your skin prickle. “I didn’t expect you to be pretty.” His voice wrapped around the admission like smoke from a dying fire, warm and hazy, laced with that understated awe that made your heart clench.

The connection stuttered then, a cascade of digital interference fracturing the feed into a mosaic of static snow, your image dissolving into abstract bursts of color before reforming with a reluctant snap. The interruption amplified the intimacy, leaving his confession to reverberate in the suspended silence, the air in your room thickening as if the very atmosphere held its breath. Your fingers dug into the edge of the desk, nails biting into the scarred wood, as a laugh bubbled up nervously, disbelieving to bridge the gap.

“What?” you managed, the single word laced with a breathy edge, your eyes searching his through the renewed clarity, the flush deepening to a bloom across your cheeks and neck.

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through the speakers like distant thunder rolling over parched earth, his free hand rising to scrub at the back of his neck in a gesture so endearingly human it tugged at something deep within you. The motion pulled the shirt taut across his torso, outlining the steady strength beneath, and when his gaze returned to yours, it carried a spark of that wry humor, a deflection wrapped in genuine warmth that eased the raw edge without extinguishing the spark.

“You know,” His tone dipping into a conspiratorial murmur, as if sharing a secret in the hush of a crowded room, “You never told me your name.” The question hung there, simple yet profound, a thread pulling you closer across the cosmic divide.

You offered it up then, your name spilling from your lips in a soft cadence, the vowels rounding with the subtle inflection of your voice, carrying the everyday rhythm of late night confessions and half remembered dreams. It felt intimate, exposing, like baring the curve of your collarbone in the dim light.

He repeated it slowly, almost reverently, the syllables tumbling over his tongue as if testing their weight, savoring the shape of them like a rare melody plucked from the silence of space. His head tilted in a languid nod, the console lights catching the faint sheen of sweat at his hairline, and his eyes softened, crinkling at the edges with a smile that reached deep. “I like that name.” The words a gentle caress, evoking the imagined brush of callused fingers along your jaw, steady and unhurried.

“Thanks?” The confusion lifting at the end in a playful lilt, but your gaze betrayed the undercurrent the way it lingered on the faint laugh lines framing his mouth, the silver strands that only amplified his appeal, transforming him from a distant icon into a man of tangible depth, worlds removed from the tentative explorations of your past entanglements.

The sun outside your window surrendered fully now, its final rays bleeding into the deepening twilight, the sky shifting from fiery amber to a velvet indigo laced with the first hesitant stars. The room cooled gradually, the air carrying the crisp bite of evening, mingling with the faint vanilla from a forgotten candle on your shelf, as campus lights winked on like fireflies awakening in the gathering dusk. Your world funneled to him. The subtle shift of his harness as he leaned forward, the way his breath fogged the camera lens ever so slightly before the filters cleared it, syncing with your own in a rhythm that pulsed with unspoken invitation.

From that precipice, the conversation unfurled like a solar sail catching the wind effortless, expansive, delving into the marrow of your existences with a hunger born of isolation. You wove tales of Earth's chaotic tapestry. The symphony of rain pattering on awning metal during unexpected downpours, the electric buzz of a lecture hall alive with the scratch of pens and the mumble of half formed ideas, the quiet triumph of debugging code until the screen bloomed with success, lines of green text like verdant fields after drought.

He reciprocated with the stark poetry of the cosmos the silken whisper of astrophage samples swirling in zero g containment, the bitter edge of ramen chased with the synthetic tang of rationed fruit, the profound stillness broken only by the occasional ping of incoming data, a lifeline to a world he'd left behind. Laughter threaded through the exchange, dry and effervescent. Your anecdote about a professor whose monotone rivaled the ship's autopilot drawing a bark of genuine mirth from him, his recounting of a toolkit revolt in microgravity tools orbiting like mischievous satellites prompting your unrestrained peal that echoed in the empty module, warming the chill metal walls.

Tension simmered beneath the surface, a slow building heat that manifested in stolen glances held too long. The arc of your neck as you tilted your head in thought, exposed and inviting; the flex of his forearm as he adjusted a dial absentmindedly, veins standing in stark relief against skin.

Pauses stretched, laden with potential the brush of your fingertips near the keyboard, echoing the hover of his over the console, as if proximity could transmute into touch, dissolving the barriers of light speed lag and impenetrable hulls.

Chemistry crackled in the ether, electric and undeniable, each shared vulnerability a spark igniting the fuse. His quiet admission of doubting his heroism, your confession of nights spent staring at ceilings, wondering if ambition was just another form of running.

Midnight encroached on silken feet, the sun's embers long extinguished, leaving the sky outside a profound black pricked with constellations that seemed to lean in, eavesdropping on your unraveling. Your room transformed into a cocoon of shadows, the laptop's glow the sole beacon, illuminating the faint freckles across your nose, the way your eyelids grew heavy yet reluctant to close.

The air grew thicker, laced with the subtle musk of your skin warmed by the screen's radiation, the tick of the wall clock a metronome to your deepening bond. You'd peeled back layers in those stolen hours his boyhood dreams of racing across open deserts, soured by the weight of global salvation; your tangled fears of mediocrity in a field of giants, the ache of empty weekends in a city that pulsed without you.

It was as if you'd mapped each other's constellations, the scars of old heartbreaks, the north stars of unspoken hopes, etched into the digital stream with a precision that felt fated.

“I wish I would’ve met you sooner,” Your words emerging raw and unarmored, threading through the speakers like a fragile comet's tail, curling around him in the frigid expanse of his cabin. The confession bore the sting of regret, the moon's pallid light now slipping through your blinds in silvery ribbons, tracing cool paths along your arms and the curve of your exposed wrist.

His face shadowed subtly, the overhead lights carving hollows beneath his cheekbones, his expression a mosaic of longing and restraint. He shifted in his seat, drawing your eye to the steady rise of his chest.

Leaning closer, his gaze ensnared yours with an intensity that made the air between screens hum with latent energy, a magnetic pull defying the physics of distance. “No you don’t,” He countered, shaking his head, his voice a velvet rumble, firm yet laced with that self effacing wit that masked deeper truths. “I was a loser on Earth. Still am now, but a cool loser since not everyone goes to space.” The joke landed with feather light grace, a humorous veil over the vulnerability, but his eyes, those storm tossed seas reflecting the infinite black held fast, the chemistry between you igniting like a flare in the void, drawing you inexorably nearer.

The question rose unbidden, heavy as the gathering night, your voice fracturing on its edges like thin ice underfoot. “Are you ever coming back?” It lingered in the midnight hush, the laptop's fan whirring a frantic dirge, the battery icon pulsing crimson in accusation, the raw plea etched in the lines of your face, the parted lips, the wide eyed hope warring with dread.

Silence bloomed, profound and eloquent, his jaw clenching with a faint tic of muscle, the unspoken verdict settling like cosmic dust in the wake of a supernova, no, not in the way that mattered, the mission's inexorable tide pulling him further into the dark.

His hand ascended slowly, deliberately, palm pressing against the lab tables unyielding surface in a mirror to your own gesture, fingers splaying wide as if to bridge the gulf, to feel the phantom warmth of your skin. The yearning in that motion was palpable, a tender ache that twisted toward something fiercer, more primal the imagined press of bodies, breaths mingling in shared orbit.

Then the feed rebelled, pixels splintering into chaotic fractals, the audio distorting into a mournful keen as the power reserves faltered. “Wait!” Lunging forward, but darkness claimed the screen in an abrupt quench, the room plunging into inky repose broken only by the faint glow of your phone on the nightstand.

The laptop's chassis radiated a dying warmth against your thighs, the absence of his voice a visceral void, like the sudden chill of winter wind stripping away summer's embrace. You remained frozen, gaze fixed on the blank void, the echo of his timbre haunting the shadows, your chest tight with the bloom of an infatuation both foolish and fervent a crush on a specter glimpsed in fleeting frames, his rough hewn allure and quiet strength stirring yearnings you'd scarcely named.

Childish, the doubt whispered, curling in your gut like smoke; he'd never cross that threshold, never trace the lines of your form with hands that knew the spin of wrenches and the spin of fate. Did he harbor the same shadowed interest, that blend of carnal pull and soul deep affinity? The uncertainty gnawed, sharp as asteroid grit, yet beneath it flickered defiance. Miracles unfolded daily in this universe, worlds saved from invisible foes, signals piercing the black. Why not yours?

The night enveloped you, stars indifferent sentinels beyond the glass, but in the quiet aftermath, you savored the residue, the flavor of your name on his lips, the tether of connection enduring like a persistent signal in the cosmic noise.

Your eyelids fluttered open to the insistent trill of your alarm, a synthetic birdsong the faint scent of brewing coffee wafting under the door like a promise of normalcy. But normalcy felt fractured, your mind still adrift in the echo of his voice, that gravelly timbre wrapping around your name like a secret shared in the hush of predawn. The laptop sat dormant on your desk, its screen a blank mirror reflecting the disarray, scattered notes on astrophage trajectories, an empty mug ringed with the dregs of yesterday's tea, and the faint outline of your handprint on the edge where you'd gripped it too tightly during the feed's final sputter.

You pushed yourself up, the mattress creaking under your weight, sheets tangling around your legs like reluctant lovers. A glance at the clock confirmed the inevitable. Class in under an hour, and the gnawing realization hit like a rogue asteroid. Your project submission, the predictive model for satellite data integration, was due at the start of lecture.

Panic bloomed in your chest, sharp and cold, mingling with the stale air of the room, heavy with the remnants of unwashed laundry piled in the corner. You'd been so consumed by the digital tether to him, those hours dissolving into a haze of laughter and confessions, that the real world had blurred at the edges. No model rendered, no simulations run just the ghost of his smile lingering in your thoughts, the way his eyes had crinkled with that wry amusement, pulling you deeper into an orbit you couldn't escape.

The campus unfolded around you in a symphony of routine as you hurried across the groups, backpack slung over one shoulder, the crisp air nipping at your exposed skin and carrying the earthy perfume of fallen leaves crunching underfoot. Students clustered in animated knots, steam rising from paper cups clutched against the chill, their voices a babel of exam woes and weekend plans that felt worlds away from the cosmic intimacy you'd tasted. Your breath came in visible puffs, syncing with the quickened beat of your heart, each step a reminder of the secret humming beneath your surface like a hidden engine, propelling you forward while whispering of distances unbridgeable.

The lecture hall loomed at the end of the engineering building, its brutalist concrete facade softened by ivy creeping up the walls in defiant green tendrils. Inside, the air hummed with the low buzz of fluorescent lights and the shuffle of bodies settling into tiered seats, the scent of chalk dust and overheated electronics thickening the atmosphere.

You slipped into your usual spot near the front, the worn armrest cool against your palm, but before you could even unzip your bag, a shadow fell across your desk. Professor Hale was tall and angular, with wire rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose and a perpetual furrow etched between his brows hovered there, his tweed jacket shedding faint motes of lint like stars from a disintegrating galaxy.

"A word?" His voice was measured, carrying the quiet authority of someone who'd mentored prodigies and watched them falter. He gestured toward the side aisle, away from the gathering crowd, and you rose on numb legs, the scrape of your chair echoing like an accusation in the relative quiet.

The hallway beyond the doors was a narrow vein of linoleum, fluorescent strips overhead casting a sterile glow that washed out the colors of your shirt, making the world feel two dimensional. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, the fabric of his sleeves whispering against the cinderblock as he fixed you with a gaze that probed without malice, curious, concerned, laced with the disappointment of unmet expectations.

"You've always been one of my sharpest," Tone even, like the steady drip of a faucet in an empty room. The words landed softly, but they stirred the knot in your stomach, twisting it tighter. The narrow window, a pigeon fluttered against the glass, its wings a frantic blur before it veered away into the gray sky.

"Your work on the energy harnessing algorithms last semester? Brilliant. Predictive models that anticipated variables the rest of the class hadn't even touched. So, when I didn't see your submission this morning well, it's unlike you. Everything alright? Personal issues? Overloaded schedule?"

Heat crept up your neck, not from shame but from the proximity of the truth you'd buried deep the nights blurred into one endless conversation, Ryland's dorky jokes cutting through your isolation like a laser through fog, his confessions drawing out your own in a vulnerable dance that left you breathless. You could picture him now, adrift in the Hail Mary's confines, perhaps staring at his own console, wondering if the silence meant you'd drifted away. The thought sent a pang through you, sharp as the chill seeping from the floor tiles, but admitting it? To spill the secret of a man light years distant, a hero whose solitude mirrored your own in ways that felt fated? No, that was a bridge too far, a vulnerability that could unravel everything.

You swallowed, forcing a smile that felt brittle at the edges, your fingers twisting the strap of your backpack until the nylon bit into your skin. "Just... got caught up in some tweaks," The lie slipping out smooth as recycled oxygen, laced with just enough technical jargon to ring true. “The satellite data feeds were glitchier than expected astrophage interference patterns throwing off the baselines. I was iterating on a workaround late into the night, and time slipped away."

Hale’s eyes narrowed slightly, the lines around them deepening like craters under scrutiny, but he nodded, the gesture slow and appraising. The hallway echoed with the distant murmur of the lecture beginning without you, voices rising in a crescendo of rustling papers and the professor's opening remarks filtering through the door like muffled thunder. "I get it, passion projects can eclipse deadlines. But talent like yours doesn't excuse sloppiness. Mock something up by the end of the day? A variant model, perhaps? Focus on the core outputs energy yield projections, tracking efficacy. No need for the full integration if you're still refining. Just show me you're still in the game."

Relief washed over you, cool and fleeting, as he clapped a hand on your shoulder firm, paternal, the warmth of his palm seeping through your hoodie like a brief anchor to the tangible world. "Don't let it slide again," his voice dropping to a conspiratorial rumble, the faintest hint of a smile cracking his stern facade. "The field's cutthroat enough without self sabotage."

He turned then, the door swinging open with a hydraulic sigh, admitting a gust of warmer air scented with dry erase markers and the faint mechanical smell of projectors.

You lingered in the hallway a beat longer, the cool wall pressing against your back, grounding you as your mind raced ahead. A mock up simple enough. Pivot to a terrestrial simulation, repurpose public datasets on solar flares and algal blooms, fabricate the outputs to mirror the required details without dipping into the live feeds that had led you to him.

No risk of pinging Ryland's systems, no accidental breach that could sever the fragile thread between you. The harm in secrecy? None, you told yourself, the words a mantra against the flutter in your chest. It was yours a private constellation, unmarred by scrutiny or protocol. Professors pried into code, not hearts; they mapped algorithms, not the quiet ache of longing for a voice across the void.

Back in your seat, the lecture blurred into a haze of equations scrawled on the board, chalk dust swirling in the projector beam like nebulae birthing stars. Your notebook filled with sketches, but beneath it all simmered the undercurrent the memory of his laugh, low and rumbling, evoking the imagined brush of his fingers along your arm, steady and unhurried.

By afternoon, in the dim glow of the computer lab keyboards clacking, the air humming with the whir of cooling fans you pieced together the facade. Lines of code flowed under your fingertips, elegant and deceptive, yielding graphs of projected efficiencies that danced on the screen in vibrant blues and greens, echoing the real without invoking it.

As the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the quad through the lab's windows, you hit submit, the confirmation chime a hollow victory. No mention of the man who'd stolen your focus, his image flickering in your mind's eye the silver at his temples catching the console light, the subtle strength in his jaw as he leaned into the camera, eyes holding yours with a gravity that defied energy. The secret nestled safe, a warm ember against the encroaching dusk, promising more stolen moments in the quiet hours when the world slept and the stars aligned just for you.

The door to your apartment clicked shut behind you with a soft, definitive thud, sealing out the clamor of the evening campus, the distant laughter of students spilling, the rustle of wind through skeletal oaks, and the faint, acrid tang of exhaust from the shuttle bus rumbling away.

Your backpack hit the floor with a muffled thump, keys jangling as they followed, and you exhaled, the tension of the day uncoiling like a spring finally released. The room enveloped you in its familiar hush the faint hum of the fridge in the corner, the subtle creak of floorboards settling under your weight, and the lingering scent of vanilla from the candle you'd burned last night, now a waxy stub on the windowsill.

Twilight bled into indigo, streetlamps flickering to life like hesitant stars, casting elongated shadows across the rumpled bed where your thoughts had wandered all day back to him, to the gravel in his voice, the way his presence filled the screen like a gravitational pull you couldn't resist.

You sank onto the edge of the mattress, the springs sighing in protest, and fired up the laptop with fingers that trembled just slightly from the anticipation. The screen bloomed to life, its glow warming your face in the dimming room, and you initiated the call without a second thought.

All day, through the drone of lectures and the frantic tap of keys in the lab, he'd been a constant undercurrent a stolen glance at your phone during break, imagining his wry smile; the brush of your thigh against the desk as you pictured his hand there instead, steady and warm.

The connection stabilized with a familiar chime, pixels resolving into the confines of the ship that stark, utilitarian cockpit bathed in the soft light of control panels, the hum a perpetual whisper in the background like the ship's own restless breath.

Ryland appeared, framed by the camera's unyielding eye, and your heart stuttered at the sight of him. He was slouched in his lab chair, a black I Had Potential shirt clinging to his frame in a way that spoke of too many hours in space, the fabric rumpled and faded, hugging the breadth of his shoulders and the subtle definition of his chest.

His hair was disarray, as if he'd run a hand through it one too many times, and dark stubble growing, giving him that rugged edge that made your pulse quicken. But there was something off his eyes, usually sharp with that calculated precision, darted sideways with a mix of exasperation and something almost like glee. The ship looked... different. Cluttered. Hoses and makeshift contraptions snaked across the console, and in the corner of the frame, a peculiar setup glinted under the lights a small, rocky outcrop secured in what looked like a hamster ball habitat, light reflecting against the glass panes.

“Hey.” His voice crackling through the speakers with that warm, lived in timbre that wrapped around you like a blanket fresh from the dryer. A grin tugged at his lips, but it was lopsided, edged with the absurdity of whatever chaos had unfolded. “You look like you survived the academic trenches. How's Earth treating its favorite hacker?”

You laughed, the sound bubbling up unbidden, easing the knot in your chest as you leaned closer to the screen, propping your chin on your hand. The room around you faded the glow of the laptop, the only anchor, pulling you into his world. “Barely. Classes were a blur. But you... you look like you've had one hell of a day. What's with the mad scientist vibe? And that shirt is a bold choice for a guy who's supposed to be saving the galaxy.”

He chuckled, low and rumbling, rubbing the back of his neck in that nervous way that made your stomach flip. The motion drew your eye to the flex of his forearm, veins tracing paths under skin, and you bit your lip against the warmth spreading through you. “Oh, this old thing? Figured it was fitting. Also my irrational fear happened.” He paused for effect, his gaze locking onto yours through the feed, that spark of shared mischief igniting something deeper, a quiet thrill that hummed between you like static electricity. “Turns out, I'm not alone up here anymore. Meet Rocky.”

He shifted the camera with a casual swivel, angling it toward the habitat. There, in the lab, was... a rock. Not just any rock an alien, Erid spawned entity, its surface etched with faint, iridescent patterns that caught the light like bioluminescent veins. If you squinted, you could almost swear it pulsed with a subtle rhythm, alive in its foreign simplicity.

Ryland's voice dropped to a mock serious tone, laced with that dry humor that always pulled a smile from you. “Rocky, this is... well, my friend from Earth. The one who's been keeping me from going crazy.”

A series of clicks and chirps emanated from the speakers of Rocky's communication, translated in real time by whatever kludged software Ryland had whipped up. The rock bobbed slightly, as if nodding, and the audio rendered it into a gravelly, synthesized voice that sounded suspiciously like a chain smoker who'd seen better days. “Friend? From Earth? Is girlfriend?”

Ryland froze, his face flushing a shade that clashed hilariously with the black shirt, eyes widening like he'd been caught with his hand in the astrophage jar. He coughed, straightening up abruptly, the chair creaking under him as he fumbled for words. “Whoa, hey, no Rocky, buddy, pump the brakes. She's a friend. A colleague, even. You know, the kind who hacks into spaceships and saves lonely astronauts from themselves.”

His gaze flicked back to you, apologetic but twinkling with embarrassment, and the awkwardness only amplified the charm the way his ears pinked at the tips, the quick rake of fingers through his hair. It was cute, so much so that pierced the cosmic divide, making your chest ache with affection.

You couldn't help the giggle that escaped, covering your mouth as heat bloomed in your cheeks, mirroring his. The compatibility hit you then, sharp and sweet. His fumbling honesty bouncing off your easy laughter, weaving a thread that felt unbreakable despite the void. “Girlfriend, huh? Rocky's got better intuition than NASA, apparently.” Your voice teased, light and playful, but underneath thrummed the truth the pull toward him growing with every shared absurdity, every glance that lingered a beat too long.

Ryland groaned, but it dissolved into a laugh, genuine and freeing, his shoulders shaking as he leaned back, the tension easing from his frame. “Ignore him. Rocky's new to Earth lingo thinks every conversation's a rom com plot. But seriously, today's been a trip. Woke up to him commandeering the ship, rerouting power like he owns the place. Took over the entire vessel before I could even eat my ramen.” He gestured vaguely at the habitat, where Rocky emitted a series of smug chirps. “Rocky efficient. Human slow.” Ryland shot it a mock glare. “See? Cocky little gravel pit. But he's brilliant figured out astrophage tweaks I hadn't even dreamed of. Saved my ass, really.”

The way he talked about it, animated and alive, eyes lighting up as he described the chaos, the sparks from overloaded circuits, the frantic rigging in the dim glow of emergency lights drew you in deeper. You could picture him in that shirt, brow furrowed in concentration, a bead of sweat tracing down his temple. The image stirred something tender and heated, a slow simmer of desire tempered by the genuine spark of his mind, so like yours in its relentless curiosity. “Sounds like you've got a companion now. I’m jealous, my day's highlight was faking a model to cover for forgetting my homework because someone kept me up too late last night.” Your words carried a flirtatious hint, testing the waters, and his responding grin slowly, knowing sent a shiver down your spine.

“Guilty as charged.” Voice dropping an octave, the awkwardness from moments ago forgotten in the warmth of your rhythm. Rocky chirped again, oblivious, but neither of you paid it mind. In that suspended moment, with the ship's hum syncing to the quiet rhythm of your breaths, the distance felt illusory.

The glitch in the feed was a fleeting hiccup, a momentary stutter in the digital tether that bound you across the cosmos, but it served only to heighten the reluctance threading through Ryland's voice. He reached out instinctively, his fingers brushing the console as if he could steady the connection with sheer will. “Come on, don't bail on us now.” The words half to the screen, half to the indifferent machinery. The image sharpened again, your face reappearing in the warm lamplight of your dorm, eyes bright with amusement at his plea.

You tilted your head, a playful smirk tugging at your lips, the loose strands of your hair catching the light like threads of starlight. “Us? Already a package deal with the rock? I feel honored.” The words carried a teasing jest, and Ryland's flush deepened, but he recovered with a grin, the kind that crinkled the fine lines around his eyes and made the isolation of his ship feel a touch less vast.

Rocky's enclosure hummed to life in the background, the bioluminescent glow intensifying as if the alien were leaning in, his translated voice rumbling through the speakers with that gravelly edge part curiosity, part mischief. “Package? Like cargo? Humans bundle everything. Girlfriend cargo?” The question landed like a well timed asteroid, blunt and unfiltered, and Ryland's head snapped toward the shelf, his expression a mix of exasperation and reluctant fondness.

“Rocky!“ He pinched the bridge of his nose, walking and putting a foot against the bulkhead. The motion pulled his shirt taut across his shoulders, a subtle reminder of the body beneath the fabric, honed by necessity in this confined world.

You couldn't help the bubble of laughter that escaped, covering your mouth with one hand as your shoulders shook. The sound echoed softly in your room, mingling with the distant patter of rain against the windowpane, grounding you even as your pulse quickened at the easy camaraderie unfolding. “Girlfriend cargo? That's a new one. Rocky, if I'm cargo, do I get hazard pay?” You leaned forward, elbows on the desk, the sweater's soft weave brushing your arms, drawing his eyes for a fraction longer than necessary.

The rock's lights pulsed in what you imagined was delight, a series of rapid chirps translating into a dry chuckle. “Hazard? Space full hazards. But you fix code valuable cargo. Grace needs fixing too. Always bumping walls.” Ryland let out a bark of laughter, genuine and unrestrained, the sound reverberating through the feed like a warm current, chasing away the chill of the recycled air on his end.

“Those bumps are character building!” he protested, gesturing animatedly, his hands cutting through the air in exaggerated arcs. “And for the record, Rocky's the one who turned the nav console into his personal scratching post earlier. Scratched right through a diagnostic panel. I spent hours patching it while he supervised from the corner.” He shot the enclosure a sideways glance, mock accusatory, but the affection in his tone was unmistakable the way it softened at the edges, revealing the bond forged in the fire of survival.

Rocky didn't miss a beat, his response a smug vibration that the translator rendered with impeccable sarcasm. “Supervise efficient. You patch slow. Like human glue sticky mess.” You watched Ryland's face light up with indignation, his lips parting in a feigned scoff, and the sight sent a flutter through your chest, the banter pulling you deeper into their world, making the stars between you feel negotiable.

“Oh, come on, that's rich coming from the guy who glued his own sensor to the wall trying to improve the humidity levels.” You chimed in, your voice laced with mischief, drawing from the snippets Ryland had shared in texts the chaotic domesticity of sharing a ship with an extraterrestrial engineer. “What was it you called it? Optimal moisture matrix?” The reference hit its mark; Ryland's eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed in playful retaliation, a spark of delight flashing across his features.

“You been paying attention, huh?” He drifted closer to the camera, the console's glow casting shadows that accentuated the stubble along his jaw, the subtle tension in his frame as he held your gaze. “Yeah, optimal disaster is more like it. Woke up to the whole habitat smelling like a wet cave. Rocky's idea of romance, apparently.” The word romance hung for a beat, unintended weight in it, and Rocky's lights flickered curiously.

“Romance? Like human bundling? You two bundle across stars?” The rock's innocence or was it calculated? ignited another round of laughter from you, your cheeks warming under the screen's scrutiny. Ryland groaned theatrically, running a hand through his hair, tousling it further into that effortlessly disheveled state that made your fingers itch to smooth it back.

“Rocky, buddy, you're killing me here. No bundling. Just... good conversation. The kind that makes a long haul feel shorter.” His voice dipped, sincere beneath the deflection, eyes locking with yours in a way that bridged the delay, conveying the quiet truth this exchange, this trio of voices weaving through the void, was mending something in him, stitch by invisible stitch.

You nodded, the moment shifting from levity to something softer, your fingers tracing idle patterns on the desk, the wood cool and familiar under your touch. “I like the bundling theory, though. Makes the distance seem... collaborative. Like we're all in this asteroid field together.” The words carried a gentle invitation, and Ryland's expression eased, a small smile curving his mouth as he absorbed it.

Rocky, ever the opportunist, rumbled approvingly. “Collaborative good. Bundle fixes ship.” The bluntness sliced through the tenderness, eliciting a chorus of chuckles, yours bright and breathless, Ryland's low and rumbling, the harmony of it echoing in the speakers like a shared pulse.

“Alright, philosopher rock, let the humans breathe,” Ryland said, though his tone brimmed with warmth, reaching over to tap the enclosure lightly, eliciting a series of indignant clicks. “Breathing inefficient. Talking better.” But the lights dimmed slightly, Rocky retreating to his observations, leaving the space for the two of you once more.

The banter had woven a new layer of ease between you, the call stretching onward as the rain outside your window intensified, drumming a rhythmic backdrop to your words. Ryland shared more tales of Rocky's antics the time the alien had reprogrammed the alarm to blare Erid hymns at dawn, or how he'd borrowed Ryland's last protein bar, mistaking it for a geological sample. You countered with cafeteria experiments that rivaled Rocky's culinary critiques.

Through it all, the undercurrent thrummed glances that lingered on the curve of a smile, the way his voice roughened when he spoke of quieter fears, your own admissions slipping out like confessions under starlight. Rocky's occasional interjections kept the levity alive, a gravitational pull keeping the conversation from tipping too far into the profound too soon.

As the hours waned, the feed's stability faltered again, the sun cresting on your horizon and painting your room in dawn's soft hues. Ryland's face, etched with the reluctance of parting, filled the screen one last time. “This... it's better than I imagined. Don't be a stranger.”

“I won't.” You promised, the words a vow etched in the quiet spaces between. The connection faded, but the echoes of laughter, the warmth of shared absurdity, lingered a constellation of its own, guiding you both through the dark.

The following day unfolded in a haze of ordinary tedium on your end of lectures droning through the haze of a too strong coffee, the relentless tap of keys on half finished assignments, and the quiet ache of absence that settled in your chest like uninvited fog. Your room felt smaller without the glow of the screen, the rain from the night before giving way to a crisp chill that seeped through the window cracks. You checked the connection sporadically, half expecting a ping, but the void remained silent, leaving you to wonder if the stars had swallowed the fragile thread between you.

When evening finally draped its shadows over campus, you initiated the call, the familiar hum of the prototype filling the room like a heartbeat. The feed crackled to life, Ryland's face materializing in the dim light of his habitat, the white fat cat shirt clinging to the subtle contours of his frame, shadows playing across the stubble that had grown a fraction thicker. His eyes, though, carried a weariness edged with that irrepressible spark, and behind him, Rocky's enclosure pulsed with a subdued rhythm, as if the alien sensed the shift in the air.

“Hey.” A low rumble that cut through the static, pulling a relieved smile from you despite the knot of anticipation in your stomach. He leaned forward, elbows on the console, the motion drawing your gaze to the way his fingers drummed idly a habit born of confinement, you suspected. “Missed this. Been a long one.”

You settled into your chair, the worn fabric sighing under you, the lamp's warm halo framing your face as you tucked a stray lock behind your ear. “Same here. Quiet day, but... yeah. How's the chaos holding up?” The words carried a lightness you forced, but his answering grin softened the edges, making the distance feel like a mere illusion.

Ryland exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck, the gesture exposing a sliver of skin at his collar that sent an unwelcome flutter through you as it always does. “Chaos is an understatement. I... I don't know if I can keep this up with Rocky. The rock's driving me up the wall.” He glanced sideways at the enclosure, where a faint glow stirred, as if eavesdropping. “Yesterday, he decides my quarters need inspection. Bounces around well, rolls, I guess poking into every corner. Asks if it's the garbage room because it's 'a little dirty.' A little! I've got limited supplies out here, and he's treating it like a biohazard zone.”

The image painted was absurdly vivid Ryland trailing after the pebbled intruder, exasperated pleas echoing in the confined space. You bit back a laugh, but it escaped in a soft huff, your fingers twisting the hem of your sweater. “Garbage room? That's... thorough. Did he reorganize your sock drawer too?”

“Worse.” Ryland groaned, but amusement laced the sound, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “He starts questioning the whole setup. Why the mess? Why the solitude? And then get this he hits me with, “don’t understand why she talks to you. Grace ugly. She's pretty. Incompatible.'' He mimicked the translator's gravelly tone with exaggerated bluntness, his face flushing a deep crimson that spread to his ears, the color stark against the pallor of recycled air life.

Your breath caught, heat blooming in your cheeks as the words sank in Rocky's unfiltered alien logic slicing through the banter like a comet's tail. Ryland's gaze locked onto yours through the screen, vulnerable and searching, the humor fading into something rawer, more exposed. He swallowed, the line of his throat working visibly, and leaned in closer, the console's edge pressing into his forearms. “So... do you? Think I'm ugly? I mean, out here, with the beard that's more scruff than style and the ramen weight starting to show, to be honest.”

The question hung, charged and intimate, the digital lag amplifying the tension until it thrummed like a live wire. Your heart stuttered, flustered warmth flooding you as you met his eyes, those expressive blue depths that held galaxies of doubt and hope. “Definitely not,” You blurted, the words tumbling out in a rush, your voice softer than intended, laced with a sincerity that made your pulse race. You shifted, the chair creaking faintly, aware of how your free hand clenched in your lap, the fabric of your jeans rough under your nails. “You’re... far from it, Ryland. The beard suits you. Makes you look... real. Approachable. Handsome, even.” The admission slipped free, hanging between you like a shared secret, your gaze dropping briefly to your hands before lifting again, emboldened by the way his expression softened, a slow smile curving his lips.

He let out a breathy chuckle, relief etching lines of ease across his features, and turned toward the enclosure with a triumphant tilt of his chin. “You hear that, Rocky? She says definitely not. Handsome, even. Take notes, buddy Earth compliments are a thing.”

The rock's lights flared in a cascade of blues and greens, the translator kicking in with a rumbling huff that bordered on indignant. “Heard. Humans blind? Or kind? Incompatible still. Pretty talks to ugly, mystery.” Rocky's response elicited a bark of laughter from Ryland, his head tipping back, the sound rich and unrestrained, vibrating through the speakers and wrapping around you like a warm embrace. You joined in, the shared absurdity easing the flush from your skin, though the undercurrent of his gaze lingered, heavy with unspoken layers.

As the laughter ebbed, Ryland's demeanor shifted, the playfulness giving way to a quieter intensity. He straightened, drifting slightly in the low gravity, his fingers tracing the edge of the console absentmindedly. “Speaking of mysteries... I've been turning this over in my head. Your hypothesis the pathlink tweaks, the algae models. Why haven't you handed it off to the government? They could run with it, get teams on it. You're onto something big here.” His tone was gentle, probing without pressure, eyes steady on yours, reflecting the soft glow of his instruments like distant stars.

You hesitated, the room's quiet amplifying the weight of the moment the distant hum of campus life outside your window a faint counterpoint to the vast silence of space. Leaning forward, you felt the cool air brush your skin, grounding you as you met his concern head on. “I don't trust them, Ryland. Not fully. They've got their agendas, their protocols, and... what if it gets buried? Or twisted? You've seen how they operate from up close.” The words carried the bitterness of late night doubts, your fingers interlacing on the desk, knuckles whitening briefly.

He nodded slowly, the motion thoughtful, his brow furrowing in that way that made you want to reach through the screen and smooth it away. “Yeah... I get that. More than you'd think. They sent me out here as the Hail Mary, literally. But even if you did give them the pathlink, it wouldn't change much for me. I'm still drifting, still the one who has to implement it. No one's on Earth gonna bridge this gap like I can no matter how many instructions I beam down. It's me or... nothing.” His voice dipped, laced with the quiet resignation of his reality, but there was a flicker of gratitude in his eyes, as if your reluctance mirrored his own isolation, binding you tighter.

The admission settled between you, tender and profound, the banter's levity yielding to this deeper accord. Rocky's enclosure hummed softly in the background, a silent witness, as Ryland's gaze held yours, the connection pulsing with a warmth that defied the cold void. “Thanks for... seeing it that way. Makes me feel less like a ghost out here.”

You smiled, small but genuine, the tension uncoiling into something softer, more enduring. “You’re not a ghost to me. Never were.” The words bridged the lag, a promise woven into the stars, as the call stretched on, the trio's voices human and alien intertwining in the quiet dance of shared truths before the connection cuts out.

The days had woven themselves into a tapestry of quiet longing since your last exchange, each hour on Earth pulling at the threads of your routine like the inexorable tug of gravity. Midterms loomed like distant storm clouds, your room a sanctuary of scattered notes and the faint scent of cooling rain seeping through the cracked window.

The prototype device hummed softly on your desk, its screen a dormant portal, but your thoughts drifted ceaselessly to the void beyond, to him adrift in the endless black, his voice a ghost that lingered in the spaces between your breaths. When the moment came to reconnect, your fingers moved with a deliberate grace over the keys, the connection blooming to life with a chime that resonated like a heartbeat, syncing yours to the rhythm of the stars.

The image sharpened into focus, revealing the cockpit's intimate confines the subtle glow of consoles casting shadows across metallic surfaces, the air recycler's whisper a constant undercurrent, carrying the faint, metallic tang that you imagined clung to his skin. Ryland filled the frame, and the sight of him stirred something deep and visceral within you a slow uncoiling of warmth that spread from your chest outward, tingling along your limbs. He wore that shirt, the one with that’s red and has Element of Surprise scripted in bold letters across his chest, the fabric a soft, worn cotton that molded to the contours of his torso, hinting at the lean strength beneath from months of solitary labor. Sleeves exposed the subtle flex of forearms etched with faint scars from tinkering, and his hair, in that effortlessly disheveled way, caught the light like burnished gold. lips that curved into a smile as his blue eyes met yours through the feed, holding there with an intensity that made the digital divide feel paper thin, charged with unspoken promises.

“Hey.” He greets as always he leaned forward slightly, the console's edge pressing into his palms, knuckles whitening just enough to draw your gaze, and the way his eyes traced your face lingering on the curve of your cheek built a tension that hummed in the air between you. “Missed that face. Space is not the same without my favorite hacker keeping me on my toes.”

You shifted in your chair, the fabric of your sweater whispering against your skin as you drew your knees up, the room's soft lamplight painting golden highlights across your collarbone. A flush crept up your neck, warm and insistent, under the weight of his regard, and you let your fingers toy with the hem of your sleeve, a small anchor against the pull of his presence. “Its been quiet without your chaos. Classes are devouring me, but... I've been counting the stars, wondering about you.” Your words carried a softness, laced with the vulnerability that had grown between you, and you watched the way his expression shifted eyes darkening with a shared ache, his breath catching just audibly over the line.

He nodded, the motion slow, deliberate, as if savoring the connection, his hand rising to rub the back of his neck in that habitual gesture that exposed the vulnerable line of his throat, the pulse there visible in the play of light. Behind him, Rocky's enclosure pulsed with faint iridescence, the alien's facets scattering prismatic glints like distant nebulae, but tonight, the rock's presence wove into the intimacy rather than intruding a silent witness to the deepening bond.

Ryland's fingers drummed a restless pattern on the armrest, the sound faint but rhythmic, betraying the undercurrent of nerves beneath his steady gaze. “Yeah, well... prepare for some chaos, because Rocky and I? We did it. Figured out the plan. Astrophage reroutes, drive optimizations, your tweaks were the key, by the way. I'm coming home.”

The words hung in the ether, a revelation that ignited a firestorm within you joy mingling with a poignant ache, the reality of his return both a balm and a torment to the longing that had taken root in your heart. You leaned in, elbows resting on the desk, the cool wood grounding you as your eyes searched his, tracing the flecks of green in the blue, the subtle crinkle at the corners that spoke of laughter held in check. “Home.” you echoed, the word tasting like hope on your tongue, your voice threading with emotion that made your throat tighten. “Ryland, that's... God, that's everything. Tell me more. When?”

A chuckle escaped him, vapid and warm, the sound curling through you like smoke, easing the edges of his tension even as his eyes held yours with a raw, unguarded intensity. He glanced briefly toward the viewport, where the starfield stretched infinite and indifferent, then back to you, his posture shifting closer, filling the screen until you could almost feel the heat of him, the imagined scent of his skin clean sweat and recycled air. “Rockys got this Eridian knack for efficiency. We bounced ideas off each other for what felt like eternities him chirping about quantum flows, me throwing in human gut instincts. It's nerve wracking, though. The re entry burn, the quarantine protocols, stepping back into a world that's moved on without me.” His voice dipped, husky with confession, vulnerability etching lines across his brow, but then his gaze softened, locking onto yours with a tenderness that sent a shiver racing down your spine. “But you... thinking about seeing you? Keeps the fear at bay, makes it all feel possible.”

Heat bloomed across your skin, a slow tide that pooled low in your belly, his words evoking visions of that meeting the brush of his hand against yours, the warmth of his breath on your neck and you bit your lip, savoring the anticipation that thrummed between you like a shared pulse. Rocky's lights flickered in the background, a playful ripple that drew a soft huff from Ryland, diffusing the intensity with a touch of humor. “See? Even Rocky's excited. Apparently he even has a mate, been together for eons. How do you say her name?” A long plethora of chimes come from Rocky and Ryland gives you a funny stare and nods. “Yeah, right, so that, we agreed upon to be Adrian.” The dry quip pulled a smile from you, lightening the air, but the tone remained desire tempered by the profound tenderness of souls reaching across the cosmos. “They’ve been separated for the past few years trying to figure out astrophage travel. But now since we figured it out… he gets to see her again.”

“That sounds incredible.” Your fingers drifting to trace the screen's edge, as if you could reach through and feel the texture of his shirt, the steady beat beneath. To feel Rocky’s dome. “Nervous for you and him, but... excited doesn't cover it. How long? I need to start marking calendars, dreaming up ways to make that year fly.”

He settled back, the shirt stretching taut across his chest for a heartbeat, drawing your eye to the rise and fall of his breathing, before his grin emerged crooked, inviting, laced with that comedic edge that made your heart stutter. “A year. Cosmic bureaucracy and all that. Long enough to build the suspense, short enough to keep me sane. Gives us time for more planning. Practice for when I can finally show you that surprise in person.” His wink was slow, deliberate, eyes gleaming with promise, the banter weaving seamlessly into the emotional tapestry, balancing the raw pull of want with the gentle anchor of their connection.

As the conversation unfolded into the night, the cockpit's hum and the rain's patter outside merged into a lullaby of possibility, their words a bridge spanning the void laughter punctuating tender admissions, glances lingering like caresses, the year ahead a canvas for the slow, inevitable convergence of hearts adrift no more.

The conversation meandered through the quiet hours, the ship's ambient hum blending with the distant patter of rain against your windowpane, each word a thread pulling you closer across the unyielding expanse. Ryland's presence on the screen felt more tangible with every shared glance, his eyes catching the console's glow like embers in twilight, and you found yourself mirroring his lean, the desk's edge cool against your forearms as you savored the subtle play of shadows along his jawline.

He shifted then, the fabric of his shirt whispering softly as he crossed his arms, the lettering twisting just enough to draw your eye to the steady rise of his chest. A thoughtful pause hung between you, broken only by Rocky's faint, rhythmic clicks from the background like pebbles tumbling in a gentle stream before Ryland's voice emerged, low and tentative, laced with that dry humor that always tugged at the corners of your mouth. “You know, when I do touch down whenever that cosmic red tape finally clears I've been thinking about our first real moment. What do you say to dinner? Or whatever passes for it after a year of freeze dried everything.”

The suggestion landed like a spark in dry tinder, igniting a warmth that bloomed slow and insistent in your core, visions flickering unbidden his hand brushing yours over a candlelit table, the brush of his knee under the cloth, the way his laugh might vibrate through the air between you. You tilted your head, letting a playful smile curve your lips as you traced the rim of your mug with a fingertip, the ceramic still warm from forgotten tea. “Dinner sounds perfect. Something simple, maybe? Italian? There's this little spot near campus cozy, with these twinkle lights that make everything feel like magic.”

He chuckled, the sound rich and rumbling, his eyes crinkling at the edges as he rubbed his chin, stubble rasping faintly against his palm. “Italian, huh? Bold choice for a guy who's been dreaming of a burger that doesn't taste like regret. But nah, let's go fancier steakhouse. Real meat, the kind that sizzles and leaves grease on your fingers. Earned it after all this.” The banter flowed easy, charged with an undercurrent of anticipation, his gaze holding yours with a lingering intensity that made your pulse quicken, as if he could already taste the evening unfolding.

You shook your head, laughter bubbling up soft and light, your hair falling forward to brush your cheek as you leaned closer to the screen. “Steakhouse? Too stuffy. We'd be those awkward people whispering over napkins. What about sushi? Fresh, light, something to celebrate without the heaviness.” The words danced between you, a playful push and pull that mirrored the deeper current of longing, his expression shifting from amusement to mock exasperation, brows furrowing in that endearing way that exposed the faint lines of fatigue around his eyes.

”Sushi? In the middle of... wherever we end up? I'd take one bite and start missing my ration packs.” He grinned, wide and unfiltered, the motion pulling at his features and sending a flutter through your chest, but before you could counter, Rocky's enclosure lit up with a sudden flurry of iridescent pulses, the alien's facets shimmering like a disco ball in distress. A burst of chirps erupted from the speakers, translated into that gravelly, synthesized drawl that always carried a hint of mischief. “No argue. Dinner at Earth home. Her place. Spaghetti. Simple. Efficient. No mess human style.”

Ryland's eyes widened, his mouth parting in a half laugh, half protest as he twisted in his seat to face the rock, the chair groaning under the abrupt motion. “Whoa, stay in your lane, buddy. This is human food. I’ve seen the way you eat, I want nothing to do with it.” But the alien's lights only flickered smugly, a series of affirmative beeps solidifying the decree, and Ryland turned back to you, shoulders rising in a helpless shrug, his cheeks tinged with a flush that deepened the warmth in his gaze. “Well, there you have it. Rocky's got opinions stronger than astrophage. Spaghetti at your apartment it is. Hope you've got a good sauce recipe, don't want him critiquing the quantum mechanics of your marinara.”

You couldn't help the burst of laughter that escaped, genuine and freeing, your hand pressing to your lips as the image settled in your mind Ryland in your space, stirring a pot. The thought wove tenderness into the desire, a domestic intimacy that made the year ahead feel both endless and achingly close. “Spaghetti it is, then. Your first Earth meal, courtesy of the galaxy's nosiest engineer. Just promise you'll save room for dessert, something sweet to make up for all the arguing.”

His smile softened, eyes tracing your face with a deliberate slowness that sent a shiver tracing your spine, the digital barrier thinning under the weight of shared possibility. “Deal. Can't wait to find out what that looks like, up close.” The words lingered, heavy with promise, as the night deepened around you both, the rain a soft symphony to the budding plans that bridged the stars.

The months blurred into a tapestry of pixels and promises, each video call a stolen breath across the light years, weaving your lives into something profoundly ordinary and extraordinarily intimate. What began as tentative banter evolved into a rhythm as familiar as your own heartbeat, Ryland's face filling your screen at odd hours, his voice a gravelly anchor amid the static of your room's fluorescent hum or the ship's ceaseless drone. Holidays became your anchors, virtual rituals that bridged the void with laughter and longing, turning isolation into shared secrets.

The first Thanksgiving arrived like a whisper in the dark, your screen aglow with the warm flicker of a candle you'd lit on your cluttered desk, textbooks shoved aside for a plate of makeshift turkey canned, but spirited. Ryland appeared disheveled, silver flecked hair messy from a nap, his shirt rumpled as he balanced a tray of rehydrated mash that looked more like glue than gravy. “Alright, hacker extraordinaire,” he drawled, eyes crinkling with that dry mischief, “Do we toast to overcooked birds or just pretend this isn't the saddest feast since the Mayflower's leftovers?” You laughed, the sound bubbling up as you raised your glass of cheap wine, the tart bite lingering on your tongue. “To survival. And to you not poisoning yourself with whatever that is.” His grin widened, fork pausing mid air, and for a moment, his gaze held yours with a heat that made the room feel smaller, the distance a tease rather than a barrier.

Rocky chirped from the corner of the frame, lights pulsing in rhythmic approval, as if joining the toast, and Ryland rolled his eyes. “See? Even the rock thinks you're the better cook. Next year, you're making the real stuff.” The words hung, laced with implication, your skin prickling at the thought of his presence, solid and warm, in your space.

Christmas unfurled in a cascade of lights strung haphazardly across posters of nebulae and code snippets, his rigged from console leds that bathed the cabin in a starry haze. You exchanged gifts through the ether a digital playlist of Earth anthems for him, crooners and rock that made him hum off key, his baritone vibrating through the speakers like a caress; for you, a hand sketched star map, annotated with silly notes “This one's where I first saw your message. Blinked like a heartbeat.”

The call stretched late, snow dusting your window while Tau Ceti's glow framed him, and conversation meandered from childhood memories to whispered what ifs. “Remember when Rocky tried caroling?” He chuckled, the alien's enclosure flickering to a discordant beep beep that had you both dissolving into giggles. But beneath the humor simmered something deeper; his eyes traced the curve of your neck as you adjusted your scarf, voice dropping. “Wish I could unwrap something real this year. Like... seeing that smile without the lag.” Heat bloomed low in your belly, your fingers twisting the fabric as you met his stare, the air between screens thickening with unspoken want.

New Year's Eve marked a turning point, the clock ticking toward midnight in disjointed time zones yours syncing to Earth's revelry, his to the ship's chronometer. Fireworks bloomed outside your window, bursts of color painting your face as you counted down together, Rocky adding a flurry of excited clicks like premature confetti. At the stroke, Ryland leaned close, breath fogging the camera lens, his whisper husky. “Happy New Year. To us whatever that looks like when I get back.” The kiss he blew was playful, lips puckering comically, but the linger in his eyes sent a shiver racing down your spine, your own lips parting on a soft exhale. “To not being alone anymore.” and in that charged silence, the flirtation edged toward fire, his hand flexing as if reaching through the void to trace your jaw.

As spring thawed into summer on Earth, your calls grew bolder, the banter laced with touches of skin glimpsed accidentally your tank top slipping during a stretch, his shirt riding up to reveal the taut plane of his abdomen, dusted with faint hair that caught the light.

Rocky became the unwitting chaperone, his gravelly interjections punctuating the tension. “Humans hot? Air recycle fail?” During a particularly heated debate over quantum entanglement that doubled as metaphor for your pull. Ryland's laugh would rumble then, self conscious but inviting, drawing you deeper into the dance of words and glances.

Autumn brought the ache of impending change, leaves turning gold outside your window as Ryland's updates shifted repairs complete, trajectory locked for home.

The goodbye to Rocky unfolded in fragments across calls, emotional cries bubbling like champagne ready to overflow. One evening, the ship’s lights dimmed to simulate dusk, Ryland cradling the alien's enclosure like a cherished relic, facets glinting softly. “He’s packing up too, heading back to Erid with his people. Been the best friend I’ve ever had.” His voice cracked, blue eyes misting as Rocky bobbed in farewell, chirps translating to a gruff. “Good Earth friend. Keep Grace out trouble.” You watched, heart twisting, as Ryland pressed his forehead to the case, murmuring promises of safe travels. “You were the best co pilot a guy could ask for. Don't go eating any more control panels without me.” The humor masked the raw edge, but when he turned back, vulnerability etched in the lines of his face, you felt it echo in your chest. “Feels like losing a piece of the ship. But... progress.” His gaze locked on yours, steady and searing, the weight of you unspoken but palpable.

A few nights after Rocky's departure shuttle undocked, intimacy crested in a wave neither could deny. The call started light Ryland, hair damp from a sonic shower that left his skin glowing. Conversation drifted to dreams, then desires, voices lowering as the ship's hum faded to background. “Tell me what you'd do if I were there.” He prompted, tone playful yet edged with gravel, eyes darkening as you described the brush of fingers along your collarbone, the slow unbuttoning that would follow. Heat pooled in your core, breath quickening as his hand mirrored the motion on screen, tracing his own throat, then lower, the fabric tenting subtly. “Like this?” He rasped, voice thick, and you nodded, emboldened, your palm sliding beneath your waistband, the friction sending sparks through your veins.

The screen became a portal to shared surrender, his breaths syncing with yours in ragged harmony. He leaned back, chair creaking, shirt tugged up to expose the ripple of muscle as his hand worked with deliberate slowness, eyes never leaving yours fierce, adoring, a low groan escaping when you arched, whispering his name like a prayer. “God, the way you move...” Laughter threaded the tension, dry and breathless “Rockyd call this inefficient energy use.” A tender smile curving his lips as he reached out, as if to cup your cheek through the glass.

Through it all, the year etched itself in stolen moments flirty jokes over virtual coffee, funny mishaps with Rocky's translations, sensual explorations that blurred screens into skin. The distance, once a chasm, now a thread pulling you inexorably closer, anticipation building like a slow orbit toward collision.

The Hail Mary pierced Earth's atmosphere like a returning prodigal, its hull scarred by cosmic tempests but whole, a testament to ingenuity and unyielding will. You watched the live feed from your apartment, heart hammering against your ribs as the shuttle detached, gliding toward the landing pad under a sky bruised with dawn's first light. A year of pixels and promises had led to this, the man who'd become your anchor in the void, descending back to solid ground.

Your fingers trembled as you smoothed the simple tee with jeans you'd chosen, the fabric whispering against your skin like an echo of his voice in those confessions. The world outside buzzed with media frenzy, helicopters whirring like metallic insects, but you slipped through the chaos with a forged press badge, your instincts guiding you to the secure perimeter where the real reunion waited.

The air hangar smelled of scorched metal and hydraulic fluid, a stark contrast to the sterile recyclers of his ship. You lingered in the shadows of a maintenance bay, pulse syncing with the distant rumble of engines powering down. There he emerged from the hatch in a flight suit that clung to his frame, unzipped just enough to reveal the faded collar of his I Wear This Shirt Periodically tee beneath.

His hair, longer now and forever messy, caught the floodlights in silvered waves, and those blue eyes scanned the crowd with a mix of wariness and wonder. His beard now a shadow. He shaved. When his eyes landed on you, time fractured his face split into a grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes, boyish and unguarded, cutting through the months of separation like a laser. He broke from the official greetings, weaving through technicians and officials with purposeful strides, the dry humor in his posture evident even from afar the slight hunch of shoulders as if bracing for Earth's gravity to mock him.

“You didn’t die.” You joked as he closed the distance, his scent hitting you first a faint tang of hydraulic fluid and something uniquely him, warm and lived in, a natural musk. His musk. He’s no longer filtered through speakers. Up close, he was taller than the videos suggested, his presence filling the space between you with an electric hum. “Told you I'd try not to crash.” That rich baritone wrapping around you like a familiar embrace, laced with the self deprecating edge that had first hooked you. But his eyes betrayed the jest, darkening with a hunger that mirrored your own, tracing the line of your jaw as if memorizing it anew.

The crowd blurred into irrelevance; his hand found yours, calluses rough from years of tinkering, thumb brushing your knuckles in a slow circle that sent sparks skittering up your arm. “God, you're even more... you, in person.” The words hung, incomplete but weighted, his free hand hovering near your waist before dropping, he flexes his fingers as if testing the reality of touch. He feels lightheaded, unsure whether it was from earth's gravity or you.

The drive to your apartment was a haze of stolen glances and fragmented conversation, his knee brushing yours in the borrowed SUV, the contact igniting like a short circuit. He marveled at the mundane the way streetlights flickered over rain slicked roads, the hum of traffic that drowned out the silence of space, his blunt and observational commentary “Feels like I've landed in a alternate universe, where I’m famous.” You laughed, the sound lighter than it had been in months, directing him through the city's veins to your modest building, where the elevator ride amplified the tension, the confined space thick with unspoken anticipation. His shoulder pressed against yours, heat seeping through fabric, and when the doors dinged open, he followed you inside without a word, the click of the lock sealing you both away from the world.

Your apartment was a sanctuary of controlled chaos bookshelves groaning under astrophysics tomes and code printouts, fairy lights still draped twinkling softly against the late afternoon sun filtering through half drawn blinds. The air carried the faint scent of takeout remnants and your shampoo, grounding and intimate.

Ryland paused in the doorway, taking it in with a slow sweep, his duffel bag thudding to the floor. “So this is your cave.” Turning to you with a tilt of his head that caught the light on his glasses. He stepped nearer, the space between you shrinking to breaths, his fingers grazing your elbow a tentative anchor. “It’s a nice cave.” He whispered quietly. You turned into his touch, heart thudding, and guided him to the kitchen, needing the ritual of motion to steady the tremor in your limbs. “Hungry? I promised you a real meal, no rehydrated mush.”

Cooking became the slow unraveling of restraint, a dance of proximity in the narrow galley. You pulled ingredients from the fridge, fresh basil from a windowsill pot, tomatoes bursting with summer's end, ground beef simmering in a cast iron skillet that filled the air with savory warmth. Ryland hovered, his forearms corded with muscle, his attempts at chopping garlic clumsy but endearing, knife slipping as he stole glances at you.

“Admit it.” He teased, bumping your hip with his, the contact lingering a beat too long, sending a flush creeping up your neck, “You just want me for my questionable knife skills. Like Rocky with his appendages enthusiastic, zero precision.”

You swatted his arm lightly, the brush of skin electric, laughter bubbling as you stirred the sauce, the steam curling between you like a veil. He leaned over your shoulder to taste, his chest brushing your back, breath warm against your ear. “Needs more... heat.” The double entendre slipping out with a grin, his hand steadying on your waist as if to emphasize the point.

The sauce bubbled, mirroring the simmer in your veins, and when you plated the spaghetti, twirls of pasta glistening under olive oil he pulled out a chair for you with exaggerated chivalry, eyes twinkling. “Ladies first. Or human. Whatever you are.”

Dinner unfolded in a rhythm of shared stories and silences heavy with subtext, forks clinking against ceramic as the city lights began to wink on beyond the window. He devoured the meal with unfeigned gusto, moaning appreciatively around a mouthful “Never thought I’d admit that Rocky was right.” He chews, glancing down at his plate. Lips glossy from sauce. “Spaghetti was the only answer.”

His foot nudged yours under the table, a subtle press that escalated to his ankle hooking yours, drawing you closer in the invisible tether. Conversation meandered from Rocky's farewell antics (the alien's final gift a little astronaut he made) to the absurdities of reentry briefings, his jokes painting pictures. “They grilled me on protocols like I was smuggling contraband. As if astrophage samples weren't enough excitement.” His gaze lingering on the way your lips curved around a sip of wine, the glass stem cool between your fingers.

You feel his intense gaze as you eat. “What? Is there something on my face?” Your brows furrow as you scan his face for a reaction. His face turns almost into adoration with a hint of a mischievous smirk. “Oh, nothing.” He sighs dramatically with a shrug of his shoulders. Liking the way you fall into his web. He eats casually as you now stare at him in return. “What?” You say incredulously with a smile erupting on your face. His eyes flick up to you again. “You actually do have something on your face.” Before you can register his words he’s leaning over the small table. Taking your jaw into his large hand, cradling your cheek as his thumb sweeps across your bottom lip. Wiping away the missed sauce; he settles back into his seat. The pad of his thumb between his lips as he swallows the liquid off his digit. He twists noodles around his fork casually like he didn’t completely rewrite your nerves.

Clearing the table was pretext, dishes stacking in the sink as excuses to orbit each other, his body heat a constant pull. A few jokes here and there about how the cleanliness would make Rocky spiral. He trapped you against the counter when he reached for a plate, hips aligning in an accidental on purpose press that drew a gasp from your throat. “Sorry.” He lied, voice gravelly, not pulling away his hand splayed on the small of your back, thumb circling in slow, deliberate strokes that unraveled you.

The air thickened, charged with the scent of garlic and desire, and when you turned in his hold, faces inches apart, the world narrowed to the flecks of green in his eyes. “You can stay the night if you want.” His eyes flick to your lips before he answers. “I don’t know. They asked me to go teach tomorrow. It’s kinda funny how they do that,” He pauses, removing himself from you to put away a spice on the top of the shelf. The sliver of his taut hips coming into view. He notices your stare and he revels in the attention. “How you get sent to space and you come back and have work the next day.” He props himself up against the counter across from you, his gaze heavy. It’s quiet and there’s a silent exchange of words shared. “Are you sure?” You blink dumbly at him like the question was unfounded, his eyes are downcasted when you say “yes.”

He takes a long step towards you, hands planted beside your waist on the counter top. Your back pressing against the edge. “You know I was expecting someone way different looking.” His remark hits you funnily in your chest. Was he expecting someone prettier all those calls ago? “What do you mean?” He shrugs, smirking. “I was expecting a troll.” You laugh slightly at how silly the idea was. “Why’d you imagine me as a troll?” He shrugs again. “Every hacker movie ever is a dude in a basement who looks like a troll.” He leans down closer to you. “All I’m saying is that you’re prettier than a troll.” You laugh breathlessly at his somewhat compliment. “I’d hope so.”

His eyes draw down to your lips before he leans in and presses his against yours. You accept the warranted kiss. All those months of longing felt excused. His lips were surprisingly nourished and soft. The short hair on his cheeks scratching your face. Your hands hesitate over his chest unsure of where to touch him. You’ve dreamt of this for so long that you’re not sure how to execute your dreams. You’ve been with men before sure, but never someone of his stature. He notices your hesitation and lack of affection, he pauses, lips disconnecting. A single string of saliva connecting you together. As he pulls back his lips wet, “Is there something wrong? I know it’s been a while but I didn’t think I’d lose that much of my game.” You shake your head quickly. Cheeks warm from him thinking it’s his inadequacy. ”It’s not that.” His eyes level with you, brows furrowed. “Don’t tell me you’re a virgin.” He chuckles deep in his chest. “No! Not that either.” You laugh softly and your eyes fall to the floor bashfully. “I’m just nervous.” He laughs a little louder, shocked at your revelation. “What’s there to be nervous about?” He steps back and leans his hip on the counter across from you. He doesn’t speak, he just stares. From the time that you’ve known Ryland his gaze tells you a thousand things. But when he looks at you, you can’t ever tell what he’s thinking.

“Look at you.” You blush at his words, head fallen downwards. His warm hand cradles your cheek as he tilts your head up. “Wanna know a secret?” His kind eyes search your face as you nod. “When I first looked at you I thought I died and saw an angel.” You laugh shoving his shoulder. “Did not” “Did too! I swear!”

He pushes his forehead against yours, his breath fanning across your cheeks. “So, tell me, what’s there to be nervous about?” “Nothing.” “Exactly, so kiss me.”

You lean up on your toes and press your lips against his instead of him leading you. You rest your hands on his thick shoulders and he moans at your touch. The touch he’s first felt in years. To say he was touch starved was an understatement. The rumble sends shivers down your spine. You feel like you’re melting into the counter, He lifted you onto the counter with effortless strength, the cool granite a shock against your thighs as his body slotted between them.

Your hands roam from his shoulders to the sides of his damp flushed neck, to his messy hair. Your hands roaming, fingers threading through his hair, tilting his head for better access, then his hands trail down your sides to grip your hips.

He bites lightly onto your bottom lip, as you gasp his tongue invades your mouth. At the invasion you slightly arch into his chest. He pulls back heaving. “Not so nervous anymore are you?”

You shake your head before he smiles lopsidedly. Pulling you up to his chest and you squeal wrapping your legs around his torso. Arms around his neck as he carries you down the hall, his eyes trained on your face. "Where's your room?” Pointing to the door he follows and you open it for him.

He stumbles slightly and sets you down onto your bed. You roughly bounce a couple times laughing. He looks up from his stance on the floor, his glasses shifted on his face, the legs of the glasses on his jaw. He looks to the door and sees a stuffed animal he tripped over. “A monkey really?” His face wrenches in confusion as he fixes his skewed glasses on his broad nose. You smile, throwing your hands around to emphasize “It’s cute!” “It ruined my smoothness.” You roll your eyes.“Did you have any smoothness in the first place?” His mouth falls open in mock shock, his eyebrow quirks, and you wonder if this is how he scolds his students. “Oh, really?”

He lifts to his achy sore knees and presses down on the mattress to gain his standing again. “That’s not what I heard in the kitchen.” His voice lowers as he climbs upwards. “yeah?” You whisper, encouraging him. “You know what I heard?” “What?” Laying down as he towers over you, his hands start to pull up your shirt. The warmth of his hands spreads across your stomach and ribs as they travel. His knees hovering beside yours, his body mere centimeters from touching your center. His hands stop once they reach the end lace of your bra holding himself with his forearms on the sides of your head. Lips going to your ear. “I heard pretty little moans coming from that mouth of yours.” His body pushes down slightly and you can feel the girth of him in his jeans on your abdomen. It's heavy

“How did they sound?” He asks himself, shifting his lips to your jaw arching into him as his hand roams from the side of your neck over your shirt. Over your bra and he starts palming your chest. Feeling your nipple bud under the fabric. Mimicking your high pitched whine in your ear and cheeks burning. Your clit throbbing from his touch on your breast. “Ryland please.” Spent out eyes half closed and dumb. His head foggy as he looks at how desperate you look “Yes what?”

Your breath ragged almost begging him. He toys with your bra, eventually dipping his hand into the cup and feeling your soft skin on his palm. Playing with your tit, your bra strap straining against his wrist. “I want you to touch me.” Kissing your jaw chastely, the hair on his face scratching your cheek. “Where?” “Everywhere.” You whine and that does something to him. With a final kiss pressed to your temple he looks at your chest spilling out. Making a mental note of the sight. Pulling your shirt overhead along with your bra.

When you lay back down he’s on you in an instant. Kissing and lapping at your chest, moaning against your heart. It burns you alive. He hasn’t even taken off his clothes yet and you’re already soaked. Thighs pressing together, still clothed, your top half naked and bare as he eats you alive. He’s starved, his lips circling around your nipples. Nibbling them until they're sore and aching. You have to push him off from how sensitive they’ve gotten. His wet mouth coming off with a pop and slobber connecting him to you. He moves downwards on the bed, his puppy dog blues dilated behind glass.

“You want me to take care of you?” You nod incessantly. “Please.” He smiles like he already knows the answer. Unbuttoning your jeans tugging them down with your panties. Your lower half jiggled with how forceful he tugged them down. Going on his knees at the end of your bed, pulling your legs apart to hang on his shoulders at the edge. Watching the slickness of your pussy glistening for him. He has to palm himself to keep the throbbing in his jeans.

Warm and patient his hands glide up your thighs as yours cling to the silk bedding. He drags a knuckle down the front of your spread lips, feeling how warm you are. How soaked, you shiver at his digit you can’t make a note of it before his mouth attaches to your core. Writhing as his tongue laps heavy wide strokes through you. Each stroke of his tongue sends fire through you. Tits bouncing with every jolt. Those pathetic whines he loves is like music to his ears. He waited months for this, imagining you strung out from his tongue. Countless lonely nights in his shitty bed longing for your touch. Your caress and now that he’s had it he can't get enough.

Groaning as he tastes you. He’s grinding into your mattress straining in his jeans. He's surprised he hasn’t accidentally prematurely came. Face burying deeper and his scruffy cheeks get crushed by your thighs. Squeezing his head as you get closer and closer to that heavenly feeling. Your whimpers surely to wake your neighbors but you don’t care you’re so close. So sensitive.

Clamping your eyes shut, not daring to see his blue eyes steadily looking up at you from behind your mound. His nose rubbing your pubic area as he attacks your clit. A long finger pushes itself into you and instantly the fullness tears you to shreds. Crying out his name and whimpering body locking around his dirty blonde head you shake and cry. Trying to run from his mouth but his mouth follows you. Teeth softly biting your core. You can’t breathe as you come down. He just laps it up like a dog.

Wetness pooling on the sheets he sighs huskily at the sight. Mouth drenched in your fluids. In a singular motion he pulls his shirt overhead, you stare leaning up on your elbows ogling his body. You knew he was strong, but not jacked. “Holy shit.” Slurring your words. He laughs softly. “Like what you see?” You nod dumbly, mouth open. He steps on the backs of his converse. Unbuckling his jeans before he realizes you’re staring at him so intensely. Slows himself down, slowly unbuckling his belt like some stripper. “Don’t tease!” You whine and he smiles patting your thigh. “Since you were so good I’ll obey.”

For some reason the word obey spikes your blood and your thighs clench together. He notices and smiles again, before he pulls his jeans down with his boxers they pool around his ankles. His cock springing free angry and pink veins pumping red from tip to mid shaft with purple ones littering around the circumference. God he’s longer than he is girthy but your pussy already is sore from looking at it.

He motions you to sit higher up on your bed and you do but as he puts his knees on to the bed and starts crawling up the only thing you can focus on is the bobbing head of his cock. His hands rest on your knees slowly pushing your legs more apart. “My eyes are up here angel.” You quickly look into his eyes but it was just a diversion, he watches your face twist into pain as he pushes the mushroom head inside your tight entrance.

Your hands immediately go to his chest and pushing your nails into the sculpted muscle. “It's too much! I can’t!” Feeling every ridge and vein intruding inside. He can’t even reassure you as his eyes are locked on his cock splitting you open. “You already are.” One of his hands falls from your thigh to your mound. Thumb circling over your bruised clit. His forehead pushing against yours as he leans down further and pushes deeper. You start feeling longer curves in his shaft, the veins in his arms popping as he strains his body weight up. Curteous to not crush you he tries his hardest to resist not fucking you until your bimbo.

He feels your pretty soft gummy walls fluttering around him and he accidentally thrusts shallowly. Making you keen. “You're taking me so good.” He praises, kissing you gently. You can taste yourself mixed with spaghetti on his lips.

When he bottoms out and he doesn’t move. Letting you relax around him, his balls settled against your ass. His chest pressed against yours. He forgets about being inside you and focuses on kissing you hungrily. Melting into his kiss he slowly starts rutting against you.

Not pulling out just shallow little ruts. His thumb speeds up on your clit, feeling you tighten and your legs locking around his hips. You’re so full you can’t think anymore. His lips. His thumb. His cock. His weight. Him.

Then he actually starts pulling back the long stretch and burn until his tip is the only thing in. Staring at your face for a long while, you stare back. Admiring his features, the sweat forming around his face, his chest, the locks of hair stuck to his damp forehead. The way his glasses are slightly foggy. Before you nod and he pushes back in, his head is thrown back. The veins in his throat pulsing. Groaning with your whine you both are the loudest things in your complex.

You feel your body stretch to fit him, your fingers clinging to his wrists. Without hesitation his eyes flickering from your eyes, your lips to your chest to your center, the wet squelching smash of his hips returning to yours. His thighs already wet with your slick. Setting an unfathomable pace for his age and you can’t keep up. Eyes rolling into the back of your head. His thrusts picking up, sweat starts to fall onto you.

Sticking your tongue out to taste the sweaty droplets as they fall and comically so does his wire glasses. his hips stutter and he’s babbling apologies. A red blush rising on his neck and face from embarrassment. It’s quickly halted when you take his glasses and put them on. They're too big for your small face, something burns in him seeing you wear his glasses.

Thrusts grows sloppy and you’re pitiful knowing that your next orgasm is a couple thrusts away deeper now. Rougher. Every thrust rocks you higher up the bed and the headboard knocking against the wall gasping each time, fingers tracing over the veins in his forearms overwhelmed but craving more. You cry out softly when he hits that spot, and he rasps, “Yeah? Right there?”

You fall apart with a cry, clenching around him so hard he chokes on a groan and stills himself. Your walls are so clenched tight he can’t move. A couple shallow thrusts later he follows thrusting deep. Spilling into you three white hot sticky stripes. His whole body shudders, as he drops down onto you. Careful to not crush you but his body weight is smothering in a good way. He’s too hot and too sweaty.

Both of your breathing staggered as each of you trying to capture your breaths. His heart drumming against yours. He hugs your chest to his, before both of you agree it’s too hot so he rolls over. Staring blurrily at the ceiling.

“The spaghetti tasted really good.” Laughing at his comment. “What it was?” Standing with a slight humph, taking his glasses back silently. Walking naked out of your room. Admiring his strong back with your red welts on his shoulders. His fatty cheeks before he pauses in your doorway. "Where's the bathroom?” “On the left!” As you hear him pee he starts yapping again. “You know dinner was so good that I’d love to have it every night.” You hear the sink turn on and off before he comes back with a rag. Gently spread the warm water between your thighs to clean you up. Trying to ignore the twitch of his cock seeing his seed spilling out. “But you know what I liked eating the most?” He arches his eyebrow with the most devious smile. He looks at you shoving his shoulder, getting up to go to the bathroom. “Shut up, spaceman.” “What? It’s true!”

[romanticgumchewer]

#14 + holland march pls and ty <33

oh i love this anon. yes yes yes yes

|| i am no longer accepting prompts ||

prompt: "Show me where it hurts."

tags: also murder she wrote!reader (i'm sorry, i just love them so much and can't stop putting them through it) so connected to not for stealing (but you don't need to read to understand), holly is in this one!!, child endangerment for sure, gunshot wound and blood, holland is protective and selfish when it comes to you

ryan gosling masterlist | join my taglist

You never imagined, when you first met Holland and got tangled up in his life, that you would get caught up in a firefight between warring Los Angeles mobs. But here you were, cowering behind a bar, praying that it would be over soon as gunshots exploded bottles and wood and decor alike. Glass and alcohol rained down on you as you tucked Holly further into your chest, trying to shield her from everything. 

The gunfire and the trauma.

She was supposed to be at a friend's house, so far away from this, but her friend got sick. So instead of doing something more responsible, and against your advice, Holland decided to bring her along on your investigation. 

You were sure he was regretting that now. 

Holly screamed as a bottle right above her head exploded, hands over her ears, and you pulled her in tighter. Both arms wrapped around her now as you curled in as tight as possible. Minimize the surface area that could be shot. But then, the gunfire ceased. The bar was eerily quiet as the last bit of tinkling glass faded into nothing. You released a shaky breath as you unfurled only slightly.

“Is — Is it over?” Holly asked quietly, still trembling in your arms. 

“I don’t know,” you replied, moving to sit back on your haunches. “Let me look.”

Once you were barely peeking over the top of the counter, she questioned, “Can you see my dad?”

“Not yet.”

And that was the truth. All you saw were dead mobsters and broken furniture. The open bar door and glass everywhere. You had written about this kind of crime scene before. In some short story when you were young. You didn’t realize that you would be able to see that some of them died slowly. But, there was no sign of Holland or Healy anywhere. Also no sign of an alive mobster that could still shoot you, so you stood up to your full height.

That was a huge mistake. 

One of the mobsters on the floor, bleeding out, sat up as much as he could. Gun raised. You barely had time to react before a shot rang out. The bullet splintered the bar top into chips, but still had enough momentum to hit you. Holly screamed your name as you ducked back down behind the counter, something hot and wet blooming in your side. 

“Oh, my God, are you okay?” Holly asked, clutching at your arm frantically.

“Um, y-yeah. I’m alright. Just hit the wood I think.”

You didn’t want to tell her the truth this time. Didn’t want to worry her. You staggered into a seated position beside her, back hitting the bar hard as a kind of numbness set in with the heat. It was like when your foot fell asleep after sitting for too long, only it was in your side. A deep staticy feeling that certainly wasn’t good. Holly cuddled into your uninjured side, arms wrapped around your bicep, as you waited out that mobsters death so you could leave.

A few minutes later, when the numbness was beginning to fade into a sharp sting that had your jaw clenched, the bell above the door to the bar dinged loudly. You flinched at the sound.

“Holly!” Holland called out, followed by your name and the crunching of boots through broken glass.

“Last I saw them they were behind the bar,” Healy said, sounding so calm in comparison to Holland’s panic.

The mustacheoed man appeared around the corner of the bar not a second later, fear blurring into relief at the sight of the both of you alive. Stupidly, your first thought when you saw him was that he looked good. Tan suit and bright green shirt. He was freshly trimmed and shaven for once. His shirt unbuttoned enough so that you could see his wife beater and the chain that held his wedding ring.

He looked pretty. 

Or maybe that was just delirium setting in. 

Holly instantly left your side, flinging herself into her father’s awaiting arms and crying in relief. Healy appeared at Holland’s right, a small smile on his face.

“Where did you guys go?” you asked, rooted to your spot on the floor, unwilling to move.

“Chased after the guy,” Healy explained, moving past the March reunion. “Didn’t catch him.”

“Shame,” you sighed, head thunking back into the wood.

Healy extended his hand out to you to help you up. From the persistent pain, so alike to the wasp sting you received in your youth but somehow ten times worse, in your side, you knew you couldn’t ignore this for much longer. You hadn’t even taken the time to look at it yet. The wound well hidden by your jacket. So, when you took Healy’s hand with a deep breath, you knew you were in for a world of hurt.

He pulled you up and you groaned, the hot pain in your side growing as you got to your feet uneasily. Once Healy’s grip was gone, you staggered back into the bar, tears already brimming in your eyes as your bit your lips hard.

“Woah, you okay?” Healy asked, hands outstretched in case he needed to catch you. 

“I…I think something happened…” you mumbled, not wanting to put a name to it because that would make it all the more real. “H-Hurts…”

“Holy shit, did you get shot?” Holly asked loudly.

Holland was in front of you before you could take your next slow blink, looking down at you with the most seriousness you had ever seen in his face. All hard lines and frowning lips and sweat on his brow. Your breaths were ragged, pain more intense and sharp, as you looked into his eyes. 

There was that something that you couldn’t quite name again.

“Show me where it hurts,” he whispered, hands twitching at his sides.

You glanced down at your left side, a shaking hand moving to push your jacket aside. But Holland beat you to it. He moved your jacket back and sucked in a sharp breath at what awaited him. Your shirt was soaked through with crimson blood, surrounding a small hole at your hips where he could see raw, angry flesh.

“Holy shit, you got shot!” Holland exclaimed. “You — You have a gunshot wound!”

“Jesus,” Healy groaned, pulling a hand down his face.

Without pausing to think, he pressed his hand into the wound to slow the bleeding. That was what they did in movies, right? To keep people from bleeding out? Blood squelched between his fingers and he gulped. You moaned in pain at the sudden pressure, leaning practically all your weight into Holland instead of the bar as your forehead fell against his shoulder. A weariness pulling at your very bones as your side throbbed. 

“Ow,” you whispered, tears fully streaming down your face now, as you peaked at Holland out of the corner of your eye. “At least I know what this really feels like now. Not what I expected.”

“That’s seriously what you’re taking away from this?” he questioned lightheartedly, nudging your head with his shoulder.

“What can I say,” you sighed, “Always a writer.”

Sires wailed in the distance and Healy cursed. “Cops are gonna be here soon. And we can’t be here when they do.”

“Why?” Holly asked.

“Let’s just say this job isn’t exactly legal,” Healy explained as he dug the keys out of Holland’s jacket pocket. “I’ll pull the car around. We can do some medicinal work at your place.”

“We? What do you mean we?” Holland called after him as Healy came out from behind the bar and towards the door.

“By we I mean, I’ll do all the work and you get to hold her hand like the hero you are!”

You smiled despite the situation. “That sounds nice.”

Holland’s head snapped down to look at you still perched on his shoulder, the weight of you pressed to him, your blood coating his palm. Guilt gnawed at the very center of him like some wild thing trying to break free. He was the reason you were here. If it weren’t for him, you would be in your cozy home in Maine at this very moment. Happy. And certainly not with a bullet in your hip. But it also ate him for a different reason.

It sounded nice to hold your hand too.

So he smiled, a small little thing, and mumbled. “Come on, sweetheart, let’s go.”

He scooped you up into his arms after that, letting you dig your fingers into his shoulders and cry all you wanted, as he carried you to the car. Holly trailing behind you, a scheme to set the two of you up on a date already forming in her mind.

ryan gosling characters taglist: @electronicheartpersona @rommies @anixszci @leahuzumakisblog @scarlinrouge @penquinsarecool @toddthebitch @stormyparker @loganskittycatears @mercyismymom @yourfavpersonalityhire @downsobadforthatoneguy @caitsmissinglefteye @taycepascal @toneystank-3000 @tinnygems @mrsandorbby @daniiibananiii @acidwhiskey @munchkin1923 @lastwandastan @ladybirdbeetle7 @bbeadyeyes @mcmjsts @100percentlazybonez @eimethyst @jackiebabieee @flwer555 @unknownplayr @caramelsugarcookies @miaaaoa @deadlymistress24 @justatiredhuman @fyodorslave @scoredlobster68 @ailishmgk @gneepgnrop @alaniuser @mak-in-cheese @mothhballl @st4rb33 @ghostslittleprincess @loki-kinda-scared-chat @leonkennedyslefthand @laurasenchantment @nellandvoid @diieyourdaughter

@quinoaas @doveyblues @paintballkid711 @midnighttithe @yeahboyd0llfac3 @acewithamace2000

[wokeupinmars]

Save a Horse (Ride a Cowboy)

Pairing: Colt Seavers x Fem!Reader

Summary: You help Colt relax after a long day.

Warning: SMUT(18+ ONLY)! Unprotected P in V, oral sex (m receiving), breast stimulations (titty sucking + slight nipple play), dryhumping, light face fucking, cowboy hat rule, and creampie.

Word Count: 1.7K

Please comment and/or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more!

RG Masterlist

The sound of the front door slamming shut pulls you from your sleep. The noise is immediately followed by a heavy sigh and the rattling of keys as he tossed them into the trinket tray. You venture out of the bedroom and into the living room, your feet padding across the wooden floor in search of your boyfriend. You knew he’d be late; he had called earlier that evening to tell you that they’d be filming a stunt well into the night and that you shouldn’t wait up for him. 

You didn’t listen, you never did, but that never stopped him from saying it. 

“Hey,” you greet after turning on the lamp to get a look at him. The warm glow revealed a soot-covered Colt slumped against the couch, his head resting against its arm with the lower half of his body hanging off the edge. He was still wearing his harness and had a cowboy hat covering his face as he lay back. It was a little odd, but it wouldn't be the first time he’d come home still hearing a costume and safety gear.

Loud fake snores erupt from him as you approach and stand over him, noting how rigid his body seemed despite lying down. You pick up the hat and put it on, “I don’t know who you think you’re fooling with those snores, but it’s certainly not the person that sleeps next to you every night.” 

He peers up at you with one eye and then closes it again. You smile at his antics and run your hand through his hair, gently massaging his scalp to help him unwind. “I saw that.” 

He lets out a soft groan and you can see the tension in his body ease ever so slightly. “You saw nothing,” he mumbles. 

“You okay, honey?” 

“I am, ‘was just a fight sequence in the air,” he hums. “Didn’t mean to wake you.” 

“I wanted to be up when you got home,” you tell him. “Wanted to make sure you were okay.”

You knew in the grand scheme of things hand to hand combat in “space” was nowhere as intense as all the other stunts he’d performed over the years, but a beating while being suspended in the air was still a beating even if it was coordinated perfectly. Colt’s safety would always be a major concern for you due to how physically taxing his job was and you knew better than anyone else how much pain he could be in at the end of the day. 

“I’m alright, baby,” he assures. You watch as he pushes himself up into a sitting position and eyes your body before stretching his hands out to caress your hips, drawing you in.  “Love when you wear my clothes to bed…look so pretty in my shirt.” 

“Want me to run you a bath? Maybe soaking in the tub for a bit will help you relax.” 

He shakes his head and whispers, “I think I know another way.” If his suggestive tone wasn’t a dead giveaway for what he wanted, him tugging you on his lap was. He squeezes your hips before sliding his hands down to the curve of your ass. “You stole my hat,” he whispers, “Didn’t anyone ever tell you the cowboy hat rule?” 

“You steal the hat, you ride the cowboy,” you murmur.

He starts kneading your ass, “Wouldn’t want to break the rule now, would you?” 

You lean back on his thighs, scanning his face for any sign of distress, “And you’re sure you’re okay?” 

“If you’re this worried as my girlfriend, I can only imagine how worried you’ll be as my wife,” he teases, letting his lips ghost over yours. “Been thinking about you all day, being a little achy isn’t going to change that.” 

He waits until you nod before leaning in and kissing you. The kiss started off slow with his lips gently moving against yours and his hands fondling your body, but picked up steam when you began rolling your hips against his and he let out a moan. 

You could feel him starting to get hard as you rocked your hips and his grip on your hips tightened, trying to slow your movements and prolong the experience.“I’m gonna come in my pants if you keep doing that,” he mumbles against your mouth. 

“Take ‘em off then,” you breathe out, reaching your hand down between your bodies and pulling at his belt.

Colt leans back against the couch, his hands roaming down to your ass to catch the hem of the shirt you were wearing and bunching it up to your waist. You lift your arms and he takes the cue and pulls the fabric over your head, leaving you in just your underwear and knocking the hat onto the cushion beside him in the process.. “So beautiful,” he whispers before putting his mouth on one of your tits and squeezing the other.  

You can feel his tongue swirling against your nipple as he sucks. You let out a whimper when he lightly grazes your nipple with his teeth. He starts to roll your other nipple between his fingers, successfully making you squirm in his lap. 

His hard on presses against your thigh and you grind against it. You grab a fistful of his hair, tugging his head back and away from your breast. He looks at you, slightly dazed, with a flushed face and his wet lips. “I wanna suck you off,” you whisper.

“Okay,” he breathes out. 

You slide off his lap and kneel on the floor between his legs. You rub your hands over his thighs and watch as he undoes his belt, lifting his hips for you to pull both his pants and boxers off of him and free his cock from its restraint. 

You give him a few strokes and use your thumb to smear the precum leaking from his tip around. “Sweetheart,” he groans, rutting into your hand. 

“Don’t worry, honey,” you hum. “I got you.”  

You spit on his head and continue to pump him until he whines, gripping onto the edge of the couch in anticipation, “Baby.” 

Feeling satisfied with your teasing, you finally take him into your mouth and let a sense of pride take over when he moans. You rest a hand on his thigh and use the other to stroke the base of his cock as you bob your head up and down. “God,” he exhales, “Feel so good.”  

You can glance up at him and watch his chest rise and fall as you suck him off. It was obvious from the way his hips started to buck up into your mouth, bringing the head of his cock to the back of your throat, and the way his thigh started to contract under your palm that Colt wasn’t going to last long. You let him thrust into your mouth a few times, softly face fucking you, before pulling away with a pop. “Why–Why’d you stop?” he rags.   

“Relax, my love,” you shush, using his thighs as leverage and standing up. His eyes were feasting on your figure, you could feel them on you as you slipped your underwear off. You rest your hand on his shoulder to steady yourself as you climb back into his lap. He holds your waist until you’re hovering over him and guides you down on cock. 

“Just want to ride my cowboy,” you whisper.

Colt watches your head rolls back as you start to sink down onto his cock, reveling in the way you moan his name as he stretches you. “Such a good girl,” he praises when you bottom out. He leaves a trail of open mouth kisses from your jaw, down your neck, until he meets the valley of your breast. “So perfect,” he whispers.

His breath hitches when you clench around him and start to roll your hips. You put your hand on the nape of his neck and lean in for a kiss. He moans into your mouth when you pick up your pace and digs his nails into your hips as he helps guide your movements. 

“My pretty boy,” you mumble against his lips, rocking harder than before. 

“Sweetheart, please,” he whines. His eyes were starting to gloss over as you rode him, your pussy clamping around him with every move you made, “So good.” 

He stretches his hand out and picks up the cowboy hat you’d put off to the side and places it back on your head. You start to bounce on his dick, using his shoulders for support, and he takes the opportunity to cup your ass and help you move up and down. He focuses on your face, watching it contour with pleasure when he jerks his hip up to meet you halfway, “Colt!” 

Your moans grow louder as the coil in your stomach tightens as he fuck up into you. Your thighs start to burn and you resort to grinding down on his cock while he bucks into you, squeezing your walls around him and trying to chase your high. 

Colt looks up at you through hooded eyes, his dick twitching inside you when the movement of your hips starts to falter. He reaches down between your bodies, wedging his hand between your thighs, and rubs your sensitive clit. You rut against him hastily, arching your back. 

His thumb continues to rub circles against your clit, letting a groan when your walls flutter around him and you start to writhe. “That’s it, baby. Let go,” he encourages, determined to push you over the edge first. 

Your body starts to tremble and your walls tighten around him, the coil in your abdomen breaking as you release and coat his coat with your come. You let out a cry, rolling your eyes back and clinging to Colt as he fucks you through your release. His thrusts are sloppy but rough, “Fuck,” he grunts, “Amazing…always so good to me.” 

His cock twitches again and he leans his head onto your shoulder, holding you close as he comes inside your cunt. He pants against your skin, guiding your hips over his to help ride out both your highs. You hold his head and play with his hair, listening to the string of praises, thank you’s, and ‘I love you's that fall from his lips in between soft kisses. His body starts to go limp, finally relaxing after a long day and even longer night. 

[wokeupinmars]

My Neighbor’s a Witch!

Pairing: Colt Seavers x Witch!Reader

Summary: After his almost career-ending accident, Colt moves into the apartment above Spellbound Sweet, a bakery owned by a rather witchy woman.

Warnings: Fluff and angst! Depressed/Sad Colt. Magic. Reader is a witch and has a familiar in the form of a cat.

Word Count: 3.4K

Author's Note: My submission for the @goosegroupiechallenges' Supernatural theme. Gif by: @/fleursial

Part Two: When H(exes) Come to Town

Please comment and/or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more!

RG Masterlist

Colt knew he was running when he packed up his apartment, changed his number, moved out of LA, and subsequently ghosted his loved ones in the process. He was running from his past, from the dealing aftermath of breaking his back and nearly dying, from the shame and guilt over the accident, and especially from all the people he pushed away while he recovered.  

It was a cowardly move, and he knew that. Staying in Los Angeles was a painful reminder of who he used to be, all he could've been, and all that he had lost.  

So, he left.  

Leaving behind his dreams, his memories, and all the pain that came with them.  

—

You saw him for the first time through the display window of your bakery when he stepped out of the gold and brown two-toned truck. His arrival piqued your interest immediately. The coastal town of Seymour’s Bay was no stranger to tourists, but judging by the slew of boxes in the bed of his truck, he was here to stay.  

Coco, your familiar who had taken the form of a cat, jumped onto the stool you kept behind the register and followed your line of vision. “He’s cute.” Her voice echoes throughout your head.  

“Do you think he’s our new neighbor? Mrs. Murphy didn’t say anything about a new renter when she dropped by the other day.” The apartment above your shop but below yours had been vacant for months after the couple that lived there previously moved out when the wife’s job moved them to the other side of the country.  

The shop bell chimes and pulls you from your train of thought. “Welcome to Spellbound Sweets. What can I get for you?” The greeting had fallen from your lips hundreds of times, but this was the first time in recent memory that you felt nervous.  

He stood tall, with a short beard and his blonde hair tied back in a small bun, a few strands falling across his face, and offered a small smile. “Hi, I’m Colt. Mrs. Murphy told me to wait here for her and meet the… witch?”  

You took note of the way his smile never reached his eyes and how he spoke in such a neutral way before returning the polite smile and extending your hand across the counter for him to shake, “That’ll be me. I’m Y/n. It’s nice to meet you. I assume you’ll be moving in upstairs?”  

Colt nods and shakes your hand, “I am.”  

“I can give you a hand with the boxes once Mrs. Murphy gives you the keys,” you offer. 

He shakes his head, “That’s alright, I didn’t bring much with me.”  

“It’s no trouble, really. It’s been a slow day at the shop anyway. I don’t mind helping you out.”  

“No, it’s okay. I’ll manage.”  

“Alright,” you say, sensing that he wanted to be left alone. “Can I at least give you a sweet? On the house, of course.”  

Colt takes a step back and looks from the menu and then to the displays in search of a treat, “You really lean into the witch theme,” he mumbles after seeing that the drinks menu was titled ‘Witch’s Brew.’ 

“It’s not—” you were beginning to correct, but you were quickly cut off by the bell chiming again, and Mrs. Murphy’s honeyed voice boomed through the bakery, “Oh! You’ve met my darling girl!” 

You and Colt exchange a quick glance before he addresses her and her larger than life personality, “I did. You must be Mrs. Murphy, it’s nice to meet you.”  

She grins at him and motions for him to follow her outside. He looks back at you for a second, and you smile, “If you change your mind about needing a hand and you can’t find me down here, then I’m probably in my apartment on the top floor. Just knock.”  

He nods and follows your landlady out the door.  

“He’s sad.” Coco communicates, her voice ringing through your head.  

“I picked up on that, too,” you tell her. “It was exuding from him.”  

“Talk to him.”  

“Coco, he wants to be left alone. I'm not going to disturb him and neither are you. Understood?” Your feline companion scoffs at your dismissal and curls into herself on the stool.  

—

The day carried on, and aside from Colt’s arrival, was uneventful. You stood behind the counter for most of the day, watching him carry box after box up to his apartment until locking up the shop and heading upstairs. His door was cracked open and despite being tempted to poke your head in to see if he needed anything, you ultimately decided against it. He seemed like the hermit type and intruding on his space was far from neighborly.  

He had been at the forefront of your mind throughout the entire day and remained there well into the evening as you made dinner. Your mind kept drifting back to the sadness that surrounded his spirit and how unnatural it felt. You didn’t know Colt, but it felt off.  

You try to shake the thought of him and refocus on the chicken searing in the pan when you hear a knock at the door. You lower the heat on the stove and peer through the peephole before opening up to reveal Colt, who was sporting a red muscle tee and sweatpants, with Coco cradled in his arms like a baby. “Hi,” he greets, setting her down, “I found her on my fire escape.”  

She brushes up against your leg and purrs, something she only did to soften you up when she knew she was in trouble. “Oh god, I’m sorry. I’ve been so focused on following this recipe, I didn’t even notice she slipped out the window.”  

Colt waves off your apology, “No worries, and I’m sure whatever you’re making will turn out just as great as it smells.”  

“Invite him to stay.”  

Despite how irritated you were with her, you considered Coco’s words. “Thanks! It’s almost done. You’re more than welcome to join me if you’d like.”  

“I shouldn’t,” he starts, “I still have so much unpacking to do.”  

“My offer still stands. I really don't mind lending a helping hand. If you give me a few minutes to finish cooking, I can fix both of us a plate and bring it downstairs.” It was a last-ditch effort, but you still threw it out there; he didn’t know anyone here, and at no point did you see him leave to go grocery shopping either.  

You could see him hesitate. “If you’d like, of course. You don’t just have to say yes.”  

“I know, but I’d like to,” he says softly.  

—

You and Colt sit crisscrossed on the floor of his apartment, leaning against his boxes while you both eat. “This is really good. Thank you for sharing with me,” Colt hums before taking another bite of the creamy chicken and mashed potatoes you made.  

“I’m glad you like it. I’ve made it plenty of times, but found my grandmother’s recipe a few days ago and decided to try my hand at her version,” you explain.  

“Well, your grandmother has a gift,” he says after swallowing his food.  

A comfortable silence falls over the room and you find yourself just looking at him. Taking in his features, the slight bump on his nose, the mole just off the corner of his eye, and the faint lines across his forehead. 

He glances up at you and you look away, your cheeks warming up at being caught staring at him. “How long have you lived here? Mrs. Murphy said your bakery is a staple in the town and attracts a lot of tourists.”  

“A few years. I took a trip here with some friends a while back and fell in love with the town,” you explain. “What about you? Why’d you decide to move here?”  

“I needed a change,” he says after taking a deep breath.  

You notice the way his body deflates and the distant look in his eyes. You were touching a sore subject. “If you want to share, I don't mean to pry.” 

“You aren't,” he assures. “I was a stuntman up until about a year ago. I had an accident and decided to leave the entertainment industry afterwards.”  

Your eyes darted towards the inversion table in the corner of the room. You saw him unload it from the back of his truck and turn down the help of Mr. Jackson from across the street when he walked over, ready to assist. “Your back?”  

His shoulders sink further and he nods. “I broke it and basically almost killed myself in front of the cast and crew of the movie, including my girlfriend.”  

Your eyes soften as he speaks. “I’m sorry you had to go through that, but at least you weren’t alone, right? You had your girlfriend and your family?”  

Colt goes quiet and lets his head hang, “Jody…she tried to be there for me. She really did, but…but I just couldn’t do it. I was just so…”  

“Ashamed,” you conclude. It was all making sense now, why his energy felt so bleak. Colt was a man ridden with guilt and shame. He was a shell of himself. 

“Yeah,” he chokes out.  

Coco pokes her head out of the empty box she was playing in, jumping out, and cuddling up to Colt to comfort him.  

“Going through something like that, especially alone, couldn’t have been easy. You’re very strong.”  

He huffs out a humorous laugh, “I feel far from strong.” 

“You don’t have to feel strong to be strong. You said it yourself; you came here because you needed a change. It takes strength to keep going and you being here is all the proof I need to know you’re very strong.”  

He absorbs your words, letting them sink in and erode the sharp pains in his chest. “Thank you…I think I needed to hear that.”  

“Anytime.”  

—

Months passed and Colt found himself around you more and more. It started off small, with you helping him unpack the day after you had dinner together on the floor of his apartment. It was the first time he saw you use your magic. You had gone upstairs during your lunch break to see just how much progress he had made after hearing all the shuffling from the bakery, and offered to use your magic to speed up the process.  

“So is the witch shtick a lifestyle choice?” He asked you as he unpacked all his jigsaw puzzles.  

“It’s not a shtick, I am a witch.”  

“And I’m a werewolf.”  

“I’m serious,” you insisted.  

“Prove it.”  

He was eating his words in seconds when the boxes he had stacked in the kitchen opened, and his utensils and appliances were floating through the air. “What the fuck!”  

“Tell me where you want everything to go.” 

“How are you doing that?”  

“Magic. We’ve been over this. I’m a witch.”  

“Okay, okay, okay. This is so cool and also a little terrifying. My neighbor's a witch!” He walked through the kitchen, weaving past the floating objects and opening the drawer by the stove. “Can you put the forks and stuff in here?”  

He remembered the sound of your laugh at him jumping at the sound of all the silverware clacking against each other.  

“Does that mean that the stuff down at the shop is magical too?”  

“Some are, but not everything. Most of it is to just help people. I have muffins that help relieve pain, cookies that help heal fresh wounds—that one is a big hit with parents and their kids. There’s also coffee that makes you super energized, that’s a hit with college students during their midterms and finals," you explained.

“Is the Love Potion latte an actual love potion?”  

“Well, you know what they say about love potions, shake well and never tell,” you joke, earning a soft smile from him. “I guess you aren’t wrong about me leaning into the witch stuff because I do have things on my menu like the latte that aren’t actually magical but sound like they are. But I don’t make love potions; love should be natural.” 

—

You and your friendship were proving to be exactly what he needed. You helped him shop for furniture and decorate, you showed him around town once he settled in and started working at the flower shop in town, for him to see the beauty of his new home. You introduced him to the townsfolk and clued him in on town gossip. But most importantly, you encouraged him not to abandon his passion and reconnect with his past. 

“I think you should call your friend, the stunt coordinator,” you tell him one afternoon when he comes into the shop on his lunch break.  

“Why?” He asks while petting Coco.  

“I know you said you were putting that life behind you, but the way you talked about stunts during movie night yesterday, it’s so obvious just how much you miss it. I know you’re scared that something could go wrong again, but you can’t let fear dictate your life. Stunts are your passion, yes, you have a green thumb, and you like being a florist, but I can tell it’s not fulfilling for you. And plus, you said you missed him because I don’t get your movie quotes.”  

He didn’t listen right away. He was a little too stubborn for that, but he kept your words in the back of his mind for the weeks to come until he found himself dialing Dan’s number.  

“Hello?” 

“Hey man, it’s Colt.”  

Dan lets out a laugh upon hearing his voice, “It’s about time! I’ve been waiting to hear from you.” 

Reconnecting with Dan was a lot easier than Colt expected. He was ready for a tongue lashing about dropping off the face of the Earth, but Dan only welcomed him in with open arms and told him the door was always open for him after he expressed his interest in dipping his toe back into stunt work, even if he wasn’t entirely ready. It was relieving to know that not all his loved ones were mad at him like he originally thought.  

They started speaking regularly after that, catching up on their lives after Colt pulled away. Dan spoke about what it was like making the change from stuntman to stunt coordinator, traveling, and his relationships. Colt talked about his recovery and the hobbies he picked up while in isolation. He talked about moving and putting his love for plants to use at the flower shop and all the people he’d befriend or become acquainted with. But above all else, he talked about you. 

He talked about you and how you were melting away the icy fortress he had banished himself to. He talked about how much he enjoyed your company over anyone else’s. He talked about your movie nights, how you laughed at his terrible jokes, how you bullied him into doing face masks with you on the weekends, how good of a baker you were, and that you mixed potions into the batter of some of the baked goods you sold to help the townsfolk. He talked about having dinner and doing puzzles together, and he even talked about how much Coco liked him.  

“Man, you are so far gone. Are you sure she didn’t cast a love spell on you?”  

“What?” His voice coming out more high pitched than normal.

“The way you talk about her? You’re in love with her, Colt.”  

“I’m not,” he insists, “Do you think I am?”  

“Relax,” Dan says, sensing his panic, “I was just teasing you.”  

“Right, right.”  

—

Dan’s playful accusation lingered in Colt’s mind more than he’d care to admit. He had started not only replaying every moment shared with you but had also become hyperaware of every small action that was slowly setting his heart ablaze. He was in love with you, and now that he knew it, he couldn’t unsee it; unfeel it.  

He had been trying to wrap his mind around the way he felt and how he’d fail to realize his feelings sooner. A part of him believed it was because of how gradually it happened; it didn’t happen all at once, but slowly enough for it to go unnoticed. But he’d be a liar if he said that he’d completely ruled out a spell or potion taking effect on him.  

Tonight was movie night and the two of you were seated on his couch, you with a bowl of ice cream in your lap, Colt with Coco in his. He was acting strange all week and behaving even stranger now. 

Colt was a talker. He talked through nearly every movie and show you had seen together, so to see him so quiet and spaced out tonight was concerning. You fish through your pocket, pull out a coin, and hold it out to him. “Penny for your thoughts?”  

The sound of your voice pulls him back to reality. "What?" 

“You’ve been acting weird all week. What’s wrong?”  

He rubs the back of his neck, and you squint at him, trying to assess his behavior. “Is it your back? Maybe I can make you something to help relieve the pain.”  

“No,” he starts, “I was talking to Dan a few nights ago and he said something that’s been eating away at me.”  

You sit up and turn your body towards him, giving him your full attention. “Oh? What’d he say?” 

His gaze drops and he focuses on petting Coco, “He said that I was in love with you and made a joke about you putting a spell on me because of the way I was talking about you. I know it was just him teasing me, but it really stuck with me, and I kept going over everything in my head, and I think he’s right…I think I am in love with you.”  

“You think you’re in love with me?” You whisper the words back to yourself, your chest growing warm with his admission. 

“I don’t mean to spring something like this on you, but do you think you might have accidentally cast a spell, or maybe something went wrong with one of your potions, and that’s why I feel like this?” The second the words leave his mouth, and he sees the way your face falls, he regrets it.  

“Oh." You shake your head, "No, I would never do something like that. Do you really think I’d do something like that to you?”  

He hesitates and your shoulders sink. You’ve dealt with your fair share of people accusing you of using your powers for awful things; it was easy to blame the witch and be freed from accountability or punishment. You were lucky enough to have never dealt with something like that since living in Seymour's Bay, at least not until now. Colt was the last person you expected it from, even if he thought it was an accident, it still stung. The change in your mood doesn’t go unnoticed by Coco, who was moving off Colt’s lap and hopping onto the floor. She could sense your hurt. “Let’s go.”  

“I think I should go,” you say, setting the bowl in your lap down on the coffee table and standing. 

Panic starts to set in, and Colt stands too, attempting to reach for your hand. “No, wait! I’m sorry, Sunshine, please stay. I didn’t mean to–” 

“It’s alright,” you whisper, stepping back before he could make contact. “It’s getting late anyway.”  

It was a poor excuse that neither of you believed, but you wanted to leave, and he knew he couldn’t force you to stay. “Can we talk about this tomorrow? I didn’t mean to upset you, I just never felt like this before, and I wanted to make sure it was real and not–”  

He watches as you walk to his door, stopping just before you turn the knob and glance back at him. The somber look in your eye made his chest feel like it was caving in, but your words are what truly crushed him. “I would never do that, not on purpose or by accident either. I’m too careful for that. Love potions and spells are selfish and cruel. Maybe that’s what you think of me, but I can assure you I’m nowhere as wicked as you think I am. Have a good night, Colt.”  

He moves to follow you out the door, but Coco stands in the door, and for the first time since moving in, the feline hisses at him. 

—

Part Two: When H(exes) Come to Town

[scandalscontained]

˚౨ৎ ⋆ crazy, stupid, flirt

h.march x fem!reader ⋮ nsfw, 17+ ⋮ mentions of ( off-page ) injury ⋮ consent is clear ⋮ holland is a munch ⋮ he's a terrible flirt but tries his best ⋮ making out ⋮ reader's appearance is not detailed ⋮ no use of y/n ⋮ 3.4k words

req: reader is fixing holland up in the bathroom, he hits his head and reader is trying to check if he has a concussion or not but he keeps trying (and maybe failing) to flirt with them! leads to smut...+ healy as a supporting character

“Will you stay still?” You huff, annoyance fraying the edges of your words. 

Holland, who’s still drunk as all hell, looks up at you with a dopey smile. He’s perched on the lid of the toilet like a bird would on its favorite telephone wire. Cozy but unaware of dangers. Like being electrocuted. Or in Holland’s case, leaning too far to the left and cracking his head open on the tub. 

The two of you had been in here for the last ten minutes. Most of that time consisted of you trying to get him to sit up straight, hands moving every which way to make sure he didn’t fall over, and constantly checking over your shoulder while you fished the first aid kit out from under the sink. It made you feel like you were back to your babysitting job. The only difference now was instead of a toddler, you had an even worse grown man. 

“M’trying.” He slurs his words, barely sounding like actual English. 

“Try harder.” You deadpan back.

A quiet giggle comes from him. Of course he’d find it funny—the frustration unfurling through your veins. The guy was gone. He probably didn’t even have any recollection of how he got into the bathroom. 

How did he get in the bathroom?

Well, that was a long story. The short story being this: March ran after a ‘suspect’ while drunk and ended up rolling down a hill. Flailing limbs and all. Healy had helped you get him back up the hill, into the backseat of the car, and carried in here. All that for the ‘suspect’ to have been a mannequin. 

Typical. 

“Look up at me.” There’s a vacant kind of tone to your voice, like you’d said these exact words a hundred times over. And you had. Holland was an injury magnet. 

Holland tries his best, chin jutting up to look at you. His big glassy eyes train themselves on your gaze. If you weren’t so preoccupied with tending to his wounds, you would have made a mental note of how pretty he looked. 

A trickle of dried blood drips down his cheek. He’d gotten a small gash near his temple. When you’d found him at the bottom of the hill, your assessment proved he hadn’t needed stitches. Miraculously. The guy had fallen and tumbled like a roley poley. 

“Hey.” He grins a lopsided smile as you get close to his face, bringing a wash cloth to the blood. 

He wiggles his eyebrows at you. 

Jesus Christ. 

You dab at the frayed skin around his wound, touch featherlight. Just to collect the coagulated blood. He inhales sharply, eyes pinching shut. Holland’s hands messily jut out, grasping onto your waist. 

“Shit, sorry.” You murmur, removing the wash cloth from his skin like you’d been burned. A frown captures your glossed lips. Hurting him was not the intention. “I know, sorry.”

You gently blow at the cut, hoping to provide some sort of relief. The washcloth had been dabbed in a water and peroxide mixture. It was the best way to clean out a wound—usually it hurt the most, too. But there were no bubbles. It wasn’t infected nor filled with any bacteria. 

“Mhm.” Holland slowly softens his expression.

His hands are warm against your waist. Big and strong despite his altered state. The heat of his hands radiates through your skin, warming you from the inside out. His grasp doesn’t falter. It makes your heart beat faster—for reasons you still refused to confront. 

“Alright.” You pull back, dropping the washcloth on the side of the sink. 

Most of the blood had been cleared off, anyway. All that was left was to bandage him and check if he had a concussion. It was unlikely, but you’d be damned if you ended up having to drag his drunk ass to the free emergency room across the city. 

“Y’know..” he slurs, head tilting slightly as he watches you. There’s a moment where he just watches you take out a band aid from Holly’s package. He was too drunk to comment on the fact it was Hello Kitty. “You’re pretty. Ver—so—pretty.” 

He hiccups halfway through his rambling. 

That wasn’t entirely too off par for your relationship. Holland would get drunk and loosen his lips around you, slipping off comments about how kind or pretty you looked. It was something you’d grown accustomed to rolling your eyes at him about. 

“Okay, casanova.” You don’t pay much mind to his words, walking back to press the band aid against his skin. 

Leaning down, your tongue wets your bottom lip. For some reason it helps you concentrate. Or, that’s what you like to think. Your fingers work it onto his swaying head. 

He still wasn’t staying still.

“Holland, please.” You implore, sighing. “Stay still. It’ll be crooked if you don’t.”

“Not moving.” He protests, body gently swaying like he’s on a boat. He looks up at you, blue irises sparkling under the bathroom light above. 

There was no helping him. 

“Okay.” 

Battles were meant to be picked. 

It takes another few minutes before you start working him up. There were a few things you remember from your first aid class. Really, just the essentials—concussion testing and drowning things. Thank god you still did. They proved to be very useful around holland.

He didn’t appear to have any sensitivity to light. And he wasn’t more confused than he normally was—and you were using the drunk variable indefinitely. He seemed perfectly fine.

“You’re all good.” You grin, mouth twisting upward into something comforting. “Nothing to worry about.” 

You’re still standing between his outstretched legs, closer than you normally would be. Especially since his wounds had been tended to and you ruled out any possible issues. Though, your mind couldn’t quite get your legs to move away from him.

Even if he smelled like stale beer and whiskey. 

Holland does something then; something you’d never expect. His arms wrap around your waist. Your muscles lock frozen as he clings onto you like a child would. The side of his face smushes into your chest as he hums. 

“Thanks.” He whispers, voice wavering like he was about to cry.

Your arms slowly rest on his shoulders, palms flattening on his back. Confusion overtakes you. Then, there’s a warm fluttering feeling starting in your chest. It makes your pulse skip and breath stutter. 

“Uh, anytime.” Perplexity lilts your tone, words coming out slow.

“M’love you.” He mumbles, arms tightening around you.

Warmth creeps up your neck.

“Time for you to go to bed.” The words tumble out quickly, flustered and barely leaving any space for breath. 

“No.” He protests, squeezing you against him. “Stay here.”

He’s worse than a child.

And too close. And too warm. And your partner. 

It’s getting harder to breathe. His arms are starting to feel more like vines rather than structures holding you up. The territory was all wrong. Somewhere you’d never been with Holland—even if he was only saying the things he was because he’s drunk as a skunk. It was overwhelming. 

Words crawl up your throat but die on your tongue. There were so many things passing through your mind it blended into a hum, silencing the world around you. It felt like your brain was short circuiting. 

Holland—he’s Holland. The guy who trips over his own feet. Who makes his daughter drive for him after getting his arm broken. Screeches like a banshee when there’s a bug in his room. And… who holds onto you like you’re his saving grace. 

A lump forms in your throat. 

“You don’t mean that...” Your voice sounds foreign in your own throat, words paper-thin.

He nods against you. “S’do. My girl. Best girl.”

You’re not breathing anymore.

“Holland.”

“Have I told you that?” He slurs, moving his head to look up at you. His chin rests in the valley above your chest, glassy eyes twinkling. “S’good to me. And Holly—Healy too. Dealin’ with.. My drunk ass. Never got around ta’ tellin’ ya..”

"You're drunk." You whisper.

Holland blinks. "Kiss me."

The ground beneath your feet opens and swallows you whole. Those are the words you'd never have thought to hear from him. A lot of things about tonight were things you wouldn't expect.

Was it a full moon?

"C'mon." He whines, looking up at you with those big eyes. "Jus' one. Go to bed after... promise."

Were you really gonna do this? You couldn't, right? He was drunk. Impaired. Surely, that meant he couldn't be making decisions for himself. If you asked he probably wouldn't be able to tell you what day it is. You'd be taking advantage of him if you kissed him.

You shouldn't do it. Couldn't do it.

"Okay." You breathe.

Damn it! Bad girl! This was not what you talked with yourself about!

Holland's face brightens as a five-watt smile captures his expressions. His eyes crinkle and sparkle. They look like twinkling stars in the night sky. Endlessly beautiful.

You find yourself bending down, head tilting as you press your lips against his. His mustache tickles your skin. The kiss lasts for maybe a second—maybe less. But it feels like an eternity. Fireworks pop behind your eyes and it steals away whatever breath you had left.

Holland's hands tangle in your hair, holding you close to him as he milks the kiss. Even in his inebriated state he still kissed you gently.

You pull away first, one hand coming up to catch his wrist. His skin feels warmer than it had a few minutes ago.

Heat travels through your veins. The familiar ache settles somewhere deep in your abdomen. But you force yourself to shake it off. Kissing him was way out of line—the thoughts creeping into your mind were borderline blasphemous.

"Now it's time for bed."

Holland rolls his eyes like a sassy toddler.

"Not good enough for you?" He mumbles, sarcasm lilting his slurred words.

Your mouth opens to spit out a quip. But nothing comes out. Your tongue turns to stone in your throat, the words in your mind dissipate, and suddenly your neck feels warm. He just said that. There was hesitancy in his words. They came from his mouth like an early spring breeze.

Somehow, they felt like a challenge.

Any of your inhibition flew out the window.

Self-preservation? Who's she?

Your movements are charged with electricity, shock waves licking up your spine. Your hand grabs at his collar in jest. Fingertips dip into the soft cotton, using it as leverage. Holland lets out a surprised gasp as you yank him towards you.

This time, there's nothing gentle about the kiss.

It's messy. Clashing tongue and teeth, lips bruising as they move against each other. He tastes like Jack and coke. The flavor tingles on your tongue, dripping down your throat like honey. He smiles against you, all cocky and all too happy.

He wanted that.

And you gave it to him.

You break apart from him, panting. A string of saliva connects the two of you. Sarcasm and mockery glues itself to your tone. "Good enough for you?"

Holland looks up at you with glasses over eyes, stupid grin blanketing his starry expression. "Yes—Absolutely."

It annoys you how a smile threatens to curve your mouth.

"Now it's time for you to go to bed."

"Happily. You comin' with?" He wiggles his eyebrows once more, this time with more sync. The alcohol was slowly depleting in his system.

"Don't press your luck." You murmur.

Getting him to bed consisted of hauling his arm over your shoulder and dragging him down the hall. Every few steps he whined about not being tired. The complaints were mainly centered around you not coming to bed with him. You had to cover his mouth a few times when his comments became vulgar, which only made him talk louder and laugh like a hyena.

You silently thank the gods his daughter wasn't around to hear his mouth.

And that Healy had left.

Which did mean it was only the two of you.

Holland's hand rests on your waist, fingertips trailing beneath your shirt. Every graze of his skin against yours leaves fire in its wake. You were seriously beginning to have more pros than cons about sleeping with him.

When he drops onto his bed, his fingers haphazardly dip into the loops of your jeans. He yanks you down in the same way you grabbed at him a few minutes earlier.

A gasp leaves your throat, hands going out to catch you. One palm flattens against the bed beside his head. The other plants firmly on his chest—the rest of you falling on top of him. Your thigh slots between his legs while the other straddles his thigh.

He lets out a soft grunt. His head thumps against the mattress, a chortle leaving his throat. That wasn't the plan but he's more than happy with the outcome.

You try to scramble away from him, but you feel a hard pressure against your thigh. And it's not something in his pocket. Every muscle in your body freezes. Shock settles in your system, squirming between your ribs and making a home there. He's bigger than you'd ever let yourself think about.

You're too flustered to let out any sound.

Holland's hands find your hips, touch feather light. He squeezes at the covered flesh. The contact makes your pulse skip a beat. A trickle of desire drips from your abdomen to your thighs, radiating between them.

He stares at you.

You stare at him.

"Stay?" He asks, voice barely above a whisper.

"Holland—you're not sober."

He huffs, shaking his head. "I am." His tone makes it sound more like a plea than a reassurance. "I want this—you. Shit, baby, can you feel me? Need you so bad."

Your head feels like it's swimming. There was a line you refused to cross with anyone, and Holland was straddling it. But he was coherent enough to string his words together. They weren't being slurred anymore. His eyes weren't drooping to make him look sleepy.

"You sure?" Your words are wrapped with barely contained need.

"Fuck." He grumbles, eyes closing for a moment. "Straining against my pants here. Yes, m'sure."

That wasn't a lie.

You could feel him twitching against your thigh, even beneath his clothing.

"Alright." Your words are far away sounding, like you were lost in a daze. "Okay we can—I'll—fuck, just take your pants off."

He chuckles, watching with a goofy grin as you flop onto the bed beside him. There's no hesitance in the way his hands fly to his pants. His thumbs hook into his waistband, using all his strength to rip the article off. A huff leaves his throat when he kicks off the bunched fabric and lets it fall into a ball on the floor.

The boxers he's wearing do nothing to hide the rock hard bulge. There's a dark spot bleeding through the fabric, pressing against the line of his tip. You can see the thick length of him now.

Holland rolls over on his tummy, large hands grabbing at you. He's quick to guide himself between your legs. Shaking fingers pull down the zipper of your bell bottoms. It's like he can't get them off fast enough—like they've personally offended him and he's holding back his frustrations.

They get tossed across the room by him, mumbling something that sounds like 'finally.' An audible whine rips from his throat when he's faced with your satin panties. It's the final layer between him and the rawest part of you—a part he intended on worshiping for as long as he could.

"Oh God." His voice is soft, almost like he's surprised he's nestled between your legs.

His thumb runs up your clothed slit, pressure just enough to buck your hips into his hand. Just a simple touch sent electric currents licking up your spine. You felt like a live wire, just teetering on the edge of becoming explosive.

Your fingers grip at his sheets, awaiting his next delicious assault on your cunt. The bedsheets smell like him. Whiskey, cigarettes, and soap. They blend together to create something that makes you lightheaded; dizzy in the best way.

There's a part of you that wanted him to just get on with it. The need racing through your veins made you as sensitive as a bomb. Though, the other part of you wanted to see his chin glistening with your juices and the way he looked up at you from between your thighs.

Holland's tongue flattens against your covered cunt, licking a stripe up your panties. The arousal that had soaked through the fabric lands on his tongue. He groans low in his throat, eyes fluttering shut. His nose bumps against your clit as he licks at you.

You prop yourself up on your elbows, head angled down to watch him. His arms have snaked around your thighs, hands holding you open for him. Every few moments you notice him rutting into the mattress. The sight alone is better than a sunrise—it makes a moan bubble up in your throat.

Holland opens his eyes, huge pupils dwarfing his blue eyes. There's barely even a ring of blue around them. All that's left is desire and lust. He tugs your panties to the side, forcing them from his way.

When his eyes drop down, he fucking whines. Like just seeing how wet you were for him was better than being touched. Or it had the same affect. There's not even a second for you to breathe—he dives right in like a starved man.

His lips immediately attach around your clit, sucking it into his mouth. His tongue rolls over the sensitive nub until you cry out. A content hum makes his lips vibrate around you. The assault on your body doesn't end there. He pulls off your clit with a 'pop', flattening his tongue to drag through your folds.

He eats you like you're the juiciest fruit freshly picked from a tree. Slurping, sucking, and licking at you. His facial hair gets wet within a minute. Probably less. The entire bottom half of his face is glistening, dripping with your essence.

Every drag of his tongue feels like heaven brought to you. His hands hold down your bucking hips, humming every time you moan out his name. It's so messy and dirty but that just turns you on even more. He alternates between sucking your clit and licking into you, collecting the sweetness dribbling out of you.

It's easy to see that he does this for his own pleasure as much as yours. There's a certain hunger in his eyes you've never seen from any man. It's in the way he pays special attention to what makes you whiter against his mouth.

When your hands thread through the soft locks on his head, his eyes fly open. The stare he gives you makes or heart drop. Each little tug on his hair makes him suction against you harder. The coil in your tummy is tightening every second, gaining momentum to spring back.

You can't push him away when it becomes too much. He doesn't look it, but Holland is strong. His arm settles over your hips, using his free hand to hold you open for him. There's not even an ounce of recollection when you push him away. He just ignores it.

Fingertips dance at your entrance, easing in nice and slow. The stretch around them feels overwhelming. It steals the breath from your lungs, feeling like a punch to the chest. Your thighs try to close around his head but he doesn't allow them to.

The stimulation from his fingers and mouth creates a crescendo, pushing you off the edge. White explodes across your vision. The coil in your tummy snaps, walls spasming around his digits. Holland moans into you, noise muffled by your cunt.

He's rutting into the mattress, moaning as he licks up whatever juices he can. His fingers pull out and slick drips down his wrist. He laps at your entrance, grinning as you shudder. His hand gently whacks at yours when you try to push him off.

"Holland!" Your voice is frayed, orgasm still making you light headed.

"Taste s'good." He's getting onto his knees in an instant. "Can't wait to feel—oh, shit—let me feel it, baby. Feel you wrapping 'round my dick."

His words make you whimper, head nodding fast enough to give you whiplash.

Holland's palms wrap around your thighs, yanking you closer to him."This pussy's fuckin' heaven. She ready f'me?"

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